


Every Day I Wake Up and It's Sunday

by justtoarguewithyou



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Justice for Hermione, Late 90s Teen Soul Searching, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 50,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtoarguewithyou/pseuds/justtoarguewithyou
Summary: I just hate the idea of Hermione and Ron. I wanted a better ending for Hermione. So I am writing one.I liked the idea of Oliver for her because they don't have baggage. Tabula Rasa, and all that.Now with playlists. See Notes, Chapter 1.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Oliver Wood
Comments: 47
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally made too many playlists. They're secret, so follow the links:  
> [Fun Things](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tAYJCxccRRRQIPhm1MLSp?si=HqIdsDJcTgGvoTTaKPLHcg), which includes the Travis song the title comes from, as well as songs mentioned specifically in the story.  
> [Sad Bastard Music](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5BFTQ751UrK3NMAbcUnZEB?si=pEzImsTOS-OTZHOKtGE7Bg), which is what I imagine they listen to in Chapter 10.  
> [Grungy Sounds](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2KEx3okk9xTnPIpJ8S1vSK?si=u0mX8XG9QGW4ktHN3ydvWg), cause Hermione has a crush on Chris Cornell.  
> [American Music](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3dUbMTTp0gpntpvfQ33VXy?si=H8yaI1rzTx-ewBtYziJ96Q), AKA things she found on Napster and LimeWire  
> [Down the Trip Hop Rabbit Hole](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6UCCv5fYZMkHQgnoidwzFu?si=MvRZbN29QQu5JEjLzE9Yog), a little bit of Trip Hop for you  
> [Make Out Music](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/26WrU5e2AiuxlPi6aZUTcx?si=IUlxR6W2S2mwOCHl6awjWA), Mostly.

She woke up midmorning on Sunday, the day after the Battle of Hogwarts.

After Harry had defeated Voldemort, Hermione had finally been given something to eat, and was sent to bed with a potion for dreamless sleep. When she woke, the sun was shining, and she had never felt so grateful to feel the bed beneath her.

Hermione steeled herself to talk with Harry. She found him in the Great Hall. He stopped talking to Professor McGonagall, and came over to her, holding her hands solicitously.

“Harry, I…” she began to cry. She couldn’t help it. “I have to go.”

“I know,” Harry said, thinking that if it were his parents, he wouldn’t have stopped to say anything to anyone. “I’ll be at Grimmauld Place. After you find your parents, if you want to come back to London, come stay with me. The house is huge, and I don’t want to live there alone.”

Hermione nodded and hugged him. Harry squeezed her almost breathless. She had given him so much. And now she had to tend to her own need. She went to talk to Molly, to apologize that she would miss the funeral.

“You find your parents, dear,” Molly said, after Hermione explained. “Nothing is more important that family.”

Hermione hugged Molly, and pulled Ron aside.

“I have to go,” she said again. It was her only thought.

“I know. I’ll be here,” Ron said.

They shared a tender hug, and Ron kissed her gently goodbye.

Then, she went to find Kingsley Shacklebolt, and asked his help. She hadn’t used obliviate, hoping that one day she would be able to return to them. After she’d told him what she’d done to her parents, he made a portkey on the spot, and went with her to Australia to restore her parents’ memories. She had left Crookshanks with her parents, as a ward, but also as a way of finding them again. Once in Sydney, she was able apparate them to the cat.

Kingsley was a very skilled Auror, and with his help, she was able to remove their memory spells. Kingsley made it so her parents were able to keep the memories they’d made in the past year. It was like they’d awoken from a dream.

Hermione apologized and cried, while the recognition came into her parents’ eyes. After several tear-filled minutes, in which she had been enveloped in their arms, she was able to speak.

“I’m so sorry. I just wanted you to be safe. I didn’t want anyone to hurt you,” Hermione said, wiping her eyes with her sleeves.

“Dearest, are you a witch or not?” her mother smiled at her, and tucked a curl behind her ear. Hermione gave her mother a small laugh, and wordlessly conjured a tissue to blow her nose with instead of continuing to use her sleeve.

Kingsley explained that Hermione had helped Harry to defeat a powerful dark wizard, who had been responsible for much disaster in the UK wizarding community.

“Oh, dearest,” her father said, as her parents hugged her tighter. “We just so glad you’re safe now. We’re so glad you’re home with us.”

Kingsley returned soon after to Hogwarts, as he wanted to make sure everyone’s families were notified. The school would have to be rebuilt, and the dead buried. He left Hermione with a portkey that would return her whenever she was ready.

Hermione had always come home with stories about Harry and Ron, and later, about Ron and Harry. After she returned home from her first year at Hogwarts, she had told her parents about Harry, and how he was famous because he survived a curse when he was just a baby. Her parents listened as she enthusiastically told his story, and how they had defeated several traps to recover a powerful wizarding object.

Her mother had written the headmaster asking some very pointed questions after listening to this story, though she encouraged her daughter to foster her friendships, and had never discouraged her from exploring her intellect, and the things that interested her. Hadn’t she patiently listened to her daughter’s childhood fascinations with ancient Egypt, and Mayan codices, and every gothic romance novel?

Her father, on the other hand, had been ready to drive to Scotland to raise holy hell—Hermione was his one and only daughter, after all. But her mother had calmed him down. He was furious, though he would never appear so in front of his daughter, in case she assumed he was furious with her, rather than with the position in which she’d been allowed to find herself. He’d listened to a lot of moodier prog rock after that, and punched a few pillows.

Her mother would calm him down by playing “Dancing Days” by Led Zeppelin, and swaying suggestively and beckoning him with her forefinger, until he got up to dance with her.

Her parents knew more than Hermione had ever let on, as her mother had started up a correspondence with all of Hogwarts professors. They especially liked Minerva McGonagall’s crisp writing style. She pulled no punches. Her headmaster wrote with less frequency, and seemed to know more than he let on. Those letters tended to infuriate her father.

Hermione had told them a little about Voldemort’s return, but never about how close it came to Hogwarts, and to her. Hermione had always skirted the truth.

While they were on the run, she had often thought about her parents, though she would never let Harry know how much she had wished she could go home, for a hot shower, a meal, a hug. But her fierce loyalty to Harry bolstered her through the hungry and sleepless nights.

She told her parents a little about her time with Harry and Ron, making it sound like a thrilling spy adventure, purposefully leaving out how they’d run for their lives on more than one occasion, her torture and their many near-death experiences.

“Dearest, that could’ve been so dangerous. You could’ve been found out!” her mother interjected at after being told about sneaking into the Ministry, knowing she was about to write another ream’s worth of letters, mentally adding Kingsley Shacklebolt to the long list of recipients.

Hermione didn’t tell her parents Dolores Umbridge had been the least of their worries.

She made it sound like a magical treasure hunt, where they collected pieces of a puzzle. She skipped over the battle entirely, making it sound like Voldemort had been arrested, without much fuss. Maybe one day she would tell them the truth. But not today.

Hermione stayed with them for a few quiet weeks, sleeping in their guest room, curled up with Crookshanks. She didn’t have a room in their house anymore. Of course, she knew the reason: they’d had no daughter when they bought their swanky two-bedroom condo on the beach.

A few nights after her arrival, her mother came into her room, holding a piece of parchment. Hermione had been crying, overwhelmed by the pain of her decision to follow Harry into the unknown. It had cost her a great deal.

She wiped her eyes, and plastered on a cheery smile.

“Hi, mum,” she said too brightly.

“Dearest, I think your father and I have done you a great disservice.”

Hermione sat up, not knowing what her mother was talking about—her childhood had been idyllic, and her parents nothing but supportive.

Her mother sat on the bed with her, and closed her hand around Hermione’s wrist—an old signal from childhood that her mother had created. She was going to speak, uninterrupted, and when she was done, she would let go, and Hermione had permission to ask all the questions she wanted.

“I received a letter today from Professor McGonagall. She told us about the fighting at Hogwarts, and of Voldemort’s death.

Dearest, I want to confess: I’ve been in contact with your professors, and the headmaster for years—ever since the day you left for Hogwarts. At first, it was just to check up on your general well-being. We weren’t about to blithely send our only daughter off to a school we knew nothing about. But after you came home from your first year, we wrote to learn more about your friendships, and the wizarding world in general. Your father and I have been able to fill in a lot of blanks in the stories you’ve told us during your vacations home. Your father and I have also read a lot of books, not just about Hogwarts, and Harry Potter, but about Voldemort and dark magic.

“Muggle money spends as good as galleons, and Professor McGonagall helped us set up a mail-order account at Flourish and Blott’s. She had been kind enough to send us a recommended reading list after your acceptance. Your love of reading and research comes from somewhere after all,” she said with a smile.

Her father had been standing in the doorway. Hermione looked at him, and then back at her mother, not quite sure what to make of the things she was hearing.

“She later amended the list with books that explained more about the war with Voldemort, and the threat he posed. She also sent us clippings from the Daily Prophet, and a magazine called ‘Witch Weekly,’ and I believe, ‘The Quibbler?’” her mother continued. “Your father and I have always felt that you were a strong, capable and intelligent young lady. We’ve never wanted you to feel restricted in your magical pursuits, or your intellectual curiosity hampered because we couldn’t share it. But I think you have felt unsupported by us. I wish that we had been more honest with you, so that you could’ve been more honest with us.”

“This isn’t to say that we disapprove of anything you’ve done, or the decisions you’ve made,” her father added. “We just wanted you to know that you were never alone.”

Hermione didn’t have any questions to ask, at least not then. She just cried, and her parents held her.

“I wish I had been more honest,” Hermione said, after a minute. “I should’ve known that I could depend on you both.”

“Well, logically, you couldn’t have known what we didn’t tell you,” her father said with a smile, that verged on laughter. He was always amused by his daughter’s reliance on cold, hard fact, which was why he tried to instill in her a love of music, as a way of accessing and expressing her emotions.

“Is this why you never objected to my spending so much extra time with Harry and Ron?” she asked.

Her mother noticed the change in name order, but said nothing. “Yes, dear. We had a letter from your headmaster after your first year, explaining that he believed your influence on Harry was essential to his well-being.”

“We knew a little bit about his unsatisfactory home life from Minerva’s letters,” her father said. “We’d offered our home to him our letters to her, but she surmised that there must be some reason for Dumbledore’s placement of Harry with his aunt, as she herself had objected. So, yes, that’s why we never objected when you asked to spend extra time with him.”

Hermione was agog at what her parents knew.

Her parents’ lives were now in Australia; they decided to stay where they were, as they’d already sold their home and practice in England. They liked the sunshine, and the new city, and had spent their daughterless year reconnecting and kissing on street corners like teenagers. They used their own names again, and their daughter spent the better part of two days charming their clientele into accepting the name change without fuss, and correcting business licenses, and other Muggle documentation.  
One night, her father ordered Chinese takeout, and they sat around the table, talking about their day at the beach, and nothing in particular.

Hermione watched as her father gave her mother a bite of his egg roll. She had always admired her parents’ relationship, and wondered if it was something that came naturally to them, or if they had worked at it. If she was going to pursue a relationship with Ron, she thought she was going to have work very hard.

“Penny for your thoughts,” her mother commented, noticing her daughter’s pensive face.

“Mum,” Hermione said, deciding to be brave, “how did you know that dad was the one?”

“Well, I knew right away,” her father interjected. “The minute I saw her.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “Right—that’s why you waited a month to talk to me at all.”

“Well, you were just so beautiful. All I could do was make sheep’s eyes at you during class.”

She laughed. “You certainly did. If I hadn’t gone up to you during that party, I don’t think we would’ve ever dated.”

“Well, let’s just all be glad you did,” her father said, waving his chopsticks at her. “I’ll never forget, we’d all gone over to Jim Dougherty’s flat, to listen to records, and drink a hard-earned beer after a rough week. In walked your mother. I swear the wind blew her hair, and she walked in slow motion. Led Zeppelin’s…”

“’Dancing Days’ was playing on the stereo,” Hermione finished her father’s story, as her father sighed and grinned at the recollection.

“Well, dearest, to answer your question,” her mother said, swatting her father playfully, “Your father’s excellent taste in music aside, and his long gorgeous locks, I knew your father was for me because he liked me just as I was. It was the 70s—women hadn’t really gone on to professional careers. There were only two of us that year that wanted to become dentists. Your father treated me like an equal, and never patronized me or my ambitions. He was genuinely interested in everything I had to say, and he never took me for granted.”

“Never will,” he said, kissing her hand.

She smiled at him. “Why, dearest? Did you and Ron…”

Hermione blushed. “No, just weighing my options.”

Her father raised his eyebrows. “Options?”

“Just in general, dad!” She took a huge bite of her Beef with Broccoli to preclude any other questions.

Her mother smiled, and her father said: “Smaller bites, dearest. We don’t want you to choke, after all that.”

Hermione wrote Ron a long letter that night, and took it to the Muggle Post Office in the morning.

Hermione felt like she was on vacation, and not at home. She felt like she was in a protective bubble—no one knew who she was, or stared at her in the street, or asked her questions about her time with Harry and what they had done. She had done very little magic. But she knew in her heart that she couldn’t go back to curfews, prescribed meal times, and being reminded to floss (not that she ever forgot).

After her first nightmare, she woke up sweating, a scream swelling in her throat. She turned on her light, expecting to see Bellatrix skulking in the shadows. She sat up against the headboards and thought about telling her parents. But she couldn’t yet. She knew they knew more than she ever imagined. But this wasn’t something she was ready to share.

She fell asleep as the sun came up.

During another family dinner, her father asked her about her future plans.

“Do you want to go to university? You know we’ve set aside for your higher education,” thinking about the miscellaneous account into which he’d faithfully made deposits, even without knowing exactly why.

“Maybe I will. But for now, I think I want to get my NEWT qualifications first,” she said, taking in her father’s skeptical look. “I won’t rule out being a dentist just yet...”

Her mother smothered a smile, remembering the argument her daughter and husband had after she had fixed her teeth by magic. It had been the first thing he’d noticed when they picked her up from King’s Cross that year.

“Well. We’ll transfer some money into your account—do you still have an account? I know you were very thorough in removing any trace of yourself from our lives,” her father said, with a sigh. “Still, you’ll need money for books and cauldrons, and bat’s wings, and things…”

“Thanks, dad. We can reopen my account in the morning,” she said with a guilty look. She had been extremely thorough.

“We just want what’s best for you, dearest,” her mother added. “Whatever you decide that is. We know we’ll never exactly understand about your magical world, being unable to perform magic ourselves, but we love you.”

“More than anything,” her father added.

“I love you, too,” she said with a grin. “I think for now, what’s best for me is go back to London and get settled in so I can finish my qualifications. After that, we’ll see. I don’t know what the future holds for me anymore.”

She knew she needed to go back to London, not just to see her friends, but to see someone about these nightmares that had been plaguing her.

Her mother walked in one morning and asked her about it. She had noticed the dark circles under her daughter’s eyes, and her light on at odd hours of the night.

“Dearest, what aren’t you telling us?”

“Oh, mum,” she said, her face cracking into a look of terror and utter sadness. Her mother sat beside her and hugged her, pulling her to rest on her shoulder, supporting her as she cried.

“If it’s not something you can talk about us yet, I do think you need to talk to someone,” her mother said.

“I know,” she said. “I plan to.”

The day she left, she packed her beaded bag, and hugged her parents. Crookshanks would remain in Australia, as he was now her father’s cat. Her father flatly refused to even consider parting with him.

“Consider us even for your erasing our memories,” her father said, cuddling Crookshanks, who purred happily and kneaded his lap.

Hermione loved her parents, and was so glad to have this time with them. But she wanted to go back to London, and see Harry, and talk to Ron. She’d been gone two months.

“Don’t say goodbye, say good journey,” her father said, squeezing her tight, remembering the day he’d taken his little girl to see “Masters of the Universe.”

They had soon after adopted the line for all their farewells, even if she was just going with her mother to the library, or the grocery store.

“Good journey,” Hermione said, with the farewell gesture. She laughed, with tears in her eyes, missing them already. Her father pulled her mother to them, and the three of them hugged tight.

“We’ll see you soon,” her mother promised. “Write us. We don’t have any secrets anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

The port key took her to the Ministry, and from there she walked to the Leaky Cauldron. She thought about going into the Alley to see if Mr. Olivander had reopened his shop.

She took a deep breath and walked toward the door, but couldn’t open it. She didn’t want anyone to talk to her, and she couldn’t transfigure herself into being unrecognizable using Bellatrix’s wand. She didn’t know where her wand was. Probably destroyed. She sighed.

She walked on, and ducked into an alley, and apparated to Grimmauld Place. She tapped the door with the hateful wand, and Harry, her brother of seven years, opened the door.

“Hermione!” Harry breathed, and grabbed her into a long bear hug.

“Hi, Harry,” she smiled, squeezing him back, tears in her eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” he said, after letting go. “Neville, Ron and I have gotten up to some very silly things without adult supervision.”

Hermione laughed, and asked after Ron, while Harry held her hand and took her upstairs. Walberga Black watched them through narrowed eyes, curiously silent.

“Ron’s working with George in the joke shop. They’ve spent a lot of time together lately, getting the place back up and running.”

Hermione nodded, and Harry showed her the room on the second floor he’d saved for her.

“It has its own bathroom so you won’t have to share,” he said. “We have our rooms on the third floor.”

“And Neville?” she asked, wondering where he fit in.

“Come see the roof, and I’ll tell you,” Harry said.

Hermione carefully put down her little beaded bag, which had seen much better days. It was too tattered to repair.

“Tell me first about your parents,” Harry said. “Everything ok?”

“Yes. Better than ok,” she said, tearing up a little.

Harry waited to see if she would continue.

“They’ve been so understanding and good to me,” she said. “Not that I didn’t think they wouldn’t. But it was a relief when they weren’t furious with me.”

Harry just squeezed her hand. He knew it had bothered her. He had spent seven years deducing her feelings, even if she thought they were oblivious. Harry wasn’t, just unsure how to respond sometimes. In his attempts at relationships with Cho and Ginny, he realized he had a lot of emotional baggage to sort through.

“So, tell me about you two,” Hermione said.

Harry grinned. With Ron working in the joke shop with George, Harry decided to fill his time by working on the house and the rooftop garden, which he had never seen before.

“We’re almost there,” Harry said.

Harry walked her through the attic, and up a few stairs. He opened the door to the roof, and sighed.

“When we first arrived, I brought some Aurors to help me take off the old fidelius charm, and the curses Moody had put in the hallway. We went through the house top to bottom to make sure the Death Eaters hadn’t been inside, or left anything behind, or made any way they could get back inside.

Walberga hated everyone tramping through her house, and definitely let everyone know. But, while we were searching, I found a little hatch from the attic when I decided to follow it. It led here,” Harry said, his hands outstretched. The roof was full of greenery.  
“It was just a little grassy patch,” he continued. “I wonder if Sirius made it for Buckbeak.”

“Sirius did love Buckbeak,” Hermione said with a smile.

“It made me feel better to think that they might’ve spent time up here together, enjoying the sunshine at least.”

Harry had created a proper door, and wrote to Neville, asking if he wanted a summer project. Neville wrote back right away, more than happy to help Harry with plants. He had visited every Saturday after visiting his parents in St. Mungo’s, and sometimes came during the week, staying for dinner.

“Neville’s helped me a lot with the work. We added all the plants together. You’ll see Neville a lot around here. We’ve also started to go to Sunday dinner with the Weasleys. Molly isn’t doing so well. She lost her brothers in the first war, and then lost Fred.”

Hermione sighed. She knew dealing with all of the Voldemort aftermath was part and parcel of returning to the magical world. She gave Harry another hug before going to unpack her little bag before her first Sunday dinner at the Burrow.  
He sat on her bed and filled her in on some things that happened over the past two months.

“I’m not going to go back,” he said lightly.

She just nodded, knowing that Harry meant Hogwarts. She didn’t think he would. Really, he didn’t have to.

“They’ve already offered me a post in the Auror office. I told them I needed some time,” Harry said, ruffling his hair. “They’re reorganizing and everything anyway. And I’m just so tired.”

Hermione could only nod in agreement.

“Are you going back?” Harry asked, trying to be nonchalant.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “I don’t think I want to be there without you.”

She sighed. “Is Ron going back?”

Harry shook his head. “George said if he didn’t take his NEWTs, Ron didn’t have to. I think Ron’s really enjoying himself in the shop.”

Harry’s stomach hurt. He wasn’t lying to Hermione exactly. But he knew his friends would have to sort themselves out on their own. He ruffled his hair again.

“Well. You unpack. Can I get you some tea? Biscuits? Very large bar of Honeyduke’s Chocolate?”

Hermione laughed. Harry had said that often while they were on the road, waving his hands over the empty cupboards in the tent.

“There’s really tea this time,” he whispered, grabbing her into a bear hug.

She began to cry. So grateful they hadn’t died, and that she was here, and Harry was here, and Ron would be there soon. Neville would come, and maybe Ginny and Luna. And there’d be books to read, and maybe they could laugh again. And it wouldn’t be the same as before. Maybe it would be better, because they all knew what it was to lose.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione and Harry flooed to the Burrow, there had been a lot of hellos, and hugs, and some tears. Harry went off to Ginny’s room, and Hermione stayed with Molly in the kitchen.

“How was it at your parents?” Molly said, giving her another warm hug.

“They’re fine and weren’t at all angry with me,” Hermione said. “I was so glad to see them; but their house isn’t my home anymore. They bought a condo on the beach.”

Molly sighed, knowing that they would all have a hard transition—everything was different.

Molly had watched her children sleep too little or too much, and everyone was slightly different than they used to be. She knew it would be like this. As she herself was never the same after Fabian and Gideon had died. She worried about George, who now had to navigate the world without his brother, and Harry, who felt responsible for everyone they’d lost. Ron looked guiltily at Harry sometimes, but Ron didn’t answer her when she asked him about it.

Hermione asked if her cauldron was still in Arthur’s shed.

“Yes, dear, I expect so. Are you planning to go back to Hogwarts?” she asked, hopefully.

“No,” Hermione replied. “Harry told me that he and Ron aren’t going back, and everyone else in my year has qualified. I don’t want to be the only one in the castle. I’ll write to Professor McGonagall and see if something else can be done for me. Maybe I can study at home somehow, and still sit my NEWTs.”

Hermione didn’t say that she would be fine never seeing the castle again.

Molly pursed her lips, thinking of Harry and Ron. She had talked to them several times, to no avail. Harry said he couldn’t go back. And all Ron wanted to do was help George with the joke shop.

“George needs my help now,” Ron had said. “I like working with George—he’s funny, and their stuff is brilliant. And I’m good at it.”

Ron had a surprising knack for retail—he was friendly and funny, and once he got the hang of deciphering the twin’s untidy scrawl, he was adept at recreating their magical products.

Molly filled Hermione in on Ginny’s plans, too. Ginny had turned 17 not long after the Battle of Hogwarts, and decided not to go back for her seventh year either. Instead, she went to an open tryout for a position on the Holyhead Harpies squad.

“She’s very excited, and I must say, after everything, I just want you all to be happy,” Molly admitted. “But I can’t help but worry over you all. That’s just how I’m made.”

Ginny made the team, but still lived at the Burrow. She knew her mother wasn’t ready to let her go. Seeing how losing Fred had affected her mother, Ginny decided it was for the best.

Hermione went to the shed to find her cauldron, which was packed with her school things that she’d left behind. She had used an undetectable extension charm to fit everything inside. At the bottom were some of her cherished childhood Muggle books, a few photos of her parents, and them together, and a little brown teddy bear who was slightly older than she was and usually went with her everywhere. But Hermione had wanted Mad Max (christened by her father) to be safe, as she hadn’t known if she would be.

Ron arrived just before dinner with George, and his ears turned red when he saw Hermione.

“Hermione, what a surprise,” he said, and gave her an awkward, and rather ginger, side hug. He didn’t kiss her cheek, or any other part of her.

She was taken aback by his tepid greeting, but decided they would have to talk about privately, rather than hash it out in front of everyone at the Burrow.

Harry watched, knowing that Ron had rather enjoyed his notoriety while Hermione was in Australia for the last two months. The shop was always busy, and full of flirtatious witches, who were happy to listen to Ron talk about dragons, and snatchers and dueling dark wizards. He’d had a lot of fun going out with different girls for drinks at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron fancied himself a bit of a ladies’ man.

Harry had seen the first page of Hermione’s letter, as Ron had left it on the kitchen table. He didn’t really approve of his friend’s goings-on, and told him so, but he knew it wasn’t anything he could solve. He left Ron to figure this out on his own, secretly resolved and ready to throw him out if, and when, Hermione asked. But that conversation hadn’t happened yet, and he wasn’t really ready to acknowledge that their friendships were heading for treacherous waters.

Dinner was quiet, and delicious, and despite Ron sitting awkwardly beside Ginny, and across from her, Hermione was very glad to be back with her friends.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, this came for you, Hermione,” Harry said, when they returned home.

He picked up a letter from the kitchen table, and handed it to her. She turned it over in her hands, opening the official Ministry seal.

“Thanks,” she said, opening the seal, and looked down.

The officious missive informed her that she had been awarded a modest lifetime annuity from the Ministry, as a reward for her integral part in the war against Voldemort. The pension, which was being deposited in a Gringotts vault in her name, would be paid along with her salary, should she choose to accept a position with the Ministry in the future. She had a standing offer to become an auror, though she was at liberty to follow her own career path.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said, after reading it, as she’d wondered how she’d buy food, and clothes and other necessities.

She had planned to write her parents that night, about her decision not to go back to the school itself after Harry’s news. She had planned to offer to find a part-time job so she could support herself while she studied and lived in London.

“Harry, do you feel…I don’t know what to do with myself,” she said. “For once, logic and reason are failing me.”

“Right now, I’m just sleeping and eating, and getting used to a world with no Voldemort in it,” he said.

“Are you any good at it yet?”

He shrugged. “Depends on the minute.”

She nodded, and went up to her room with the cauldron, and lay on her bed. Ron had decided to stay the night at his mother’s.

She wasn’t sure what was happening there, or what to do about it.

She shifted uncomfortably on her heap of pillows, unsure if Bellatrix would appear. She didn’t come every night, which only made her sleeplessness worse.

The next morning, Hermione walked to St. Mungo’s to see if they could help her. She met with a medi-wizard, who sent her to a mind healer, who diagnosed her with PTSD; the therapist recommended Hermione begin talk therapy, since she didn’t want to take potions for it, yet. They would adjust her treatment as needed. She felt relieved to have a plan of action. She could do anything with a plan.

She told Harry about her decision, and suggested he might go, too. But she didn’t push. She was done with pushing. Everyone needed to do their own work, in their own time. Harry decided he would go to St. Mungo’s, too. The way Hermione described it, he’d wondered if he didn’t have PTSD, too. (Of course, he did.)

Harry had been the easiest to fall back into sync with. They had existed for nearly a year together, growing in mutual admiration and respect, knowing they could count on each other. The minute he hugged her at the door, she had felt safe and at home.

Ron was harder. Since he was working at the shop with George, she didn’t see him except at meal times, and Harry was always around.

She didn’t want to fight with Ron at the table, so she cornered him at the joke shop after a few days of his skulking about, hiding from her.

“You forgot your lunch,” she said, holding out a bag. “Do you have time to eat with me?”

Ron looked sheepishly at her and agreed, though he had plans to eat with a witch he’d met earlier in the week. They went up to George’s kitchen.

“Ron,” she said. “I feel like you’re avoiding me. Are we going to talk? Or…”

“We can talk when I get home tonight,” he said, hoping to avoid any kind of scene. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy.”

Hermione sighed, and Ron ate his sandwich in five bites, and said he needed to get back to work. He practically shoved Hermione out the door and down the back stairs.

Hermione’s stomach dropped, and the back of her neck prickled.

This was bad.

She thought about how they’d kissed that night at Hogwarts. But during the weeks she had spent with her parents, she hadn’t gotten one note, not even a post card. In her letter to him, she asked about his plans and their future. She had written that after this year, she was sure they could get through anything together, and that she hoped he would give them a chance to see what they could become together.

After a tense dinner, Harry took a hint, and went to take a walk around Muggle London. Ron and Hermione remained at the table.

“What’s going on, Ron?” she asked bluntly.

“What do you mean?” he asked, though he knew full well what she meant.

“Well. I wrote you an awfully long letter, and said some things in it that were important to me,” she said.

“You know I’m rubbish at writing,” he said, unable to look her in the eye.

“Yes, but don’t you think it might’ve been important to me that you write once? To at least acknowledge what I said?” she asked.

“Well, I knew you’d be back. I just didn’t…” he trailed off.

“You just didn’t think about me?” she asked.

“No, it’s not that I didn’t think about you. I thought about you every day. I just didn’t write.” Ron looked guiltily at her. “I’m sorry. I should’ve written.”

“Ron…” she let out a deep breath. “Don’t you want to try? Now that we’ve got time to just…”

“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? We’ve got time,” Ron said, running his hands through his hair.

She couldn’t help it—she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She knew this wasn’t going to go well.

“So, you don’t want to be with me?”

“No, it’s not that. I just…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. Ok, Ronald,” she sighed.

“I’m just done with school. We just finished fighting a war. I really like you, but I’m not ready for forever.”

They sat in silence. She hadn’t asked for forever, just an opportunity.

“I just thought, after all we’d been through, that you want the chance to figure out how we could be,” she said.

“I’m not ready,” he said. His face was set, and she knew she wouldn’t change his mind.

She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“All right, then,” she said, and got up. “Good night, Ronald.”

When he returned from his walk, Harry knocked on Hermione’s door. She opened it, and Harry let himself in, closing the door. He sat on the corner of her bed.

“You ok?”

“I’m just so disappointed,” she growled, clenching her fists. She paced her room and crackled with her ferocity. “After all of that…”

She sat down beside Harry, and he put his arm around his shoulder.

“Well. Ron’s always been a bit of a prat,” he said.

She stopped pacing, and looked at Harry. She laughed. “It’s taken you an awfully long time to admit that.”

“Yeah, well. We all have our short-comings,” he said with a shrug. “Are you ok with him living here? Cause I’ll throw him out if you’re not.”

She laughed again, but she knew Harry was serious.

“I’m ok,” she said, steeling herself. “Terribly disappointed. But ok.”

He nodded and rubbed her back. He knew it would never be exactly the same. Ron and Hermione were polite at meal times, for Harry’s sake, but Hermione never really talked to Ron after that. Harry decided to leave them alone, knowing that it wasn’t his place to fix it.

Hermione wrote a tearful letter home. Her mother sent her response via Express Mail, not wanting her daughter to wait any longer than she had to.

Dearest:  
I know it’s not helpful for me to tell you that you will be all right.  
Instead, I will tell you that you’re allowed to feel every feeling, and that something like this will inspire so many. But don’t let this keep you from experiencing more. You’re a brave and beautiful girl who has accomplished so much, and suffered through things that I can only begin to imagine.  
Your father and I love you, and are here for you for anything you need. You can call us any time.  
I can’t keep you from heartache, though I’ve always wished I could. If there was anything I could say to make you suffer less, you know I would. But it seems heartache is a universal sentiment we must all experience in order to grow.  
We sincerely hope that you will find someone that loves you, and appreciates you, and most importantly wants to be with you. Love isn’t just compliments and candy. It’s someone who sees you just as you are, and wants to be a companion in your journey as you become who you will be.  
Love blooms when things align. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  
Love you, Mum  
P.S. Go out and buy yourself a copy of Rumors (Fleetwood Mac) Cash enclosed. Love, Dad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit the Road, Jack, and Don't You Come Back (No More, No More, No More, No More)


	5. Chapter 5

After her first double-session, her therapist suggested she explore things she liked from her childhood to attempt to create a little frivolity and whimsy in her daily life.

“This will be your homework. You could use the distraction,” her therapist told her gently. “It would be nice to reframe your humanity—you were brought up a Muggle. And it doesn’t sound like your transition into the magical world was easy for you. So let’s reclaim some of the things you like from the Muggle World.

It will give you something else to think about, as you do tend to dwell on and overthink the decisions you made in the past several months. You’re not responsible for all of your situation. So, let’s get you out of your head, and doing other things.”

Hermione chose to walk home from the office, which was near St. Mungo’s, rather than take the floo home. She wandered around, absorbing her homework, and decided to take it seriously.

Her first impulse was to go to the library, but she found herself walking into a record store instead.

Hermione looked around, having no idea where to start.

“Can I help you find anything?” the young man behind the counter said.

She looked up, slightly intimidated by this scruffy dude in a faded black Nirvana shirt. He had kind eyes, though, so, she stayed.

“I have no idea. My dad suggested Fleetwood Mac, but…I haven’t bought new music in ages,” she said. “I’ve spent the last several years at a really strict boarding school, and haven’t heard anything new since 1991.”

Which was technically true—the magic surrounding Hogwarts hadn’t let her listen to any Muggle radio stations, or use a Walkman or anything.

“Well, you’re in for a treat, I’m Sam,” he said, pointing his thumbs at his chest.

“Hermione,” she smiled, and did the same.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked, looking at her shrewdly.

She was caught off guard by the question, so she answered honestly, “Um. Heartbroken.”

“Ok. Relationship trouble?”

She laughed. "Sort of."

“Thought so,” he nodded knowingly. He flipped through a large CD binder where he kept open albums that they played in the shop.

“Here, listen to this,” he said, handing her his headphones, and pushed play on his Discman.

He played her Fiona Apple’s Tidal. She was hooked after the first verse of “Sleep to Dream.” She looked at him, her eyes wide. Was he a wizard? How did he know?

He smiled at her, as she bobbed her head along. She hit the pause button a minute in, not wanting to be rude.

“Ok, yes,” she said, pulling out the cash her father sent her. “This I need. What else?”

He laughed. “I’ll think on it, but you definitely need that today. Promise to come back tomorrow. I’m here from noon till seven.”

He popped the CD out of the player, and put it back into the book. He grabbed her an unopened copy, and rang her up.

“What do you like to listen to?” he asked.

“Um, I grew up on parents record collection,” she said. “So, Joni Mitchell, Led Zeppelin, Elton John. But also, David Bowie, T Rex, The New York Dolls. My father really loves music, and his record collection is massive. We watched Top of the Pops when I was a kid,   
and listened to the radio a lot. The last time I paid any real attention I remember…Bryan Adams…”

“Yeah, that song was all over the radio,” Sam said with a shrug.

“The Clash…”

“Should I Stay Or Should I Go, ok,” he nodded in approval.

“Prince?” she raised her eyebrows, hoping this was a cool enough.

“Prince, all right,” Sam said and smiled.

“Really, I’ll listen to anything,” she said.

“Obviously. Bryan Adams,” he teased, shaking his head. “That gives us a lot to explore. I’ll start working on a list of things I think you’ll like. See you tomorrow, Hermione.”

“See ya,” she said, holding the CD in her hand, walking coolly out the door.

As soon as she was out of sight, she bolted to the nearest underground entrance and took it to the stop nearest the Leaky Cauldron. She went into Diagon Alley, following a group of witches in, as she still didn’t have a wand. She walked past all the familiar shops, glancing at Olivanders. She still didn't have a wand. Not today.

She kept walking, looking at signs until she saw it: Berliners’ Audio & Wizarding Wireless.

She walked in, and asked the helpful clerk if there were any models that played Muggle technology.

“Yes, of course. We haven’t sold very many, but this tuner receives both Muggle and Wizarding radio frequencies, and can be hooked up to a Muggle CD player, as well as record player, with these adaptor cables,” he said, pushing a button, and playing a recording of a Bach concerto. The sound was really good, but the whole set up was very big.

“Do you have anything smaller?”

“I believe the Muggles call this a ‘Boom Box,’” he said, pointing out a smaller radio. “Isn’t that so imaginative? It receives both wireless frequencies, and the sound is really remarkable for something so small.” He played another CD, this time a Verdi aria played.

“Yes, I’ll take that. Do you sell headphones, as well?”

He showed her a few varieties, some that connected with wires, and some that didn’t. She chose a wireless pair. She fished her wallet out of her beaded bag, and paid with the last of her wizarding coins.

“Can I use your floo?” she asked, holding her purchases tightly to her chest.

He assented, and she floo’ed home. She dropped her bag off in her room, and then climbed the stairs to the roof. She lay on the grass and listened to her CD twice without interruption before Harry and Neville found her.

“Dinner?” Harry asked.

“Right,” she said, picking up her boom box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music makes the people come together.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muggle Summer

Hermione went to see Sam the next day.

Sam burned a CD for her every Friday usually centered around a loose theme. He made her wild mixes of things on his computer, and burned her a disc. If she liked something, he’d recommend albums to start with, not necessarily a group’s first album. Some of the artists she recognized from her childhood days of watching Top of the Pops, like The Smiths, and The Cure; and others, like Belle and Sebastian, Radiohead, Blur, Oasis, the Stone Roses were new to her.

Sam especially liked her because she was so open-minded about the things he gave her to listen to. He liked all kinds of music, and worked locally as a sound engineer when he wasn’t in the store, with dreams of turning engineering into a full-time job.

Hermione liked the company of boys—they tended to be more straight-forward—and had gone out with him a few times for a curry, or just to walk around after his shifts. He was a few years older than she was, and tended to treat her like a cool little sister. Sam invited her over to his house to watch movies on Saturday nights. She met a lot of his friends, including his girlfriend Beth, who took a shine to Hermione right away. Beth was working and going to college part-time for accounting. Hermione got along with her, as they were both smart, and talked a lot of sense.

Beth introduced her thrifting, and they went to lunch. Hermione liked this expansion of her social circle, so she wouldn’t have to lean so heavily on Harry, and make it awkward about Ron. Sometimes she took Harry to movie nights. Harry liked her new friends.  
Movie nights were fun, and she watched a lot of things that she’d never seen before, and some things she had. She loved “The Fifth Element” and the Franco Zeffirelli version of “Jane Eyre,” which had been Beth’s pick. But that made sense, since his “Romeo and Juliet” was her favorite, although the one she’d watched with Leonardo DiCaprio had been interesting. She liked that version of Tybalt.

She decided she would ask Arthur if they could take apart a TV and VCR and magic it together for her to use at home.

She had already started looking in pawn shops for cheap sets, knowing it might take them a few tries to get it right. 

Arthur had adopted a bumbling attitude to put Muggles at ease, pretending not to know how to pronounce words. It had become a habit though, and people thought him inept. But that worked to his advantage, as he never had to do more than he wanted at work, and had plenty of time for his hobbies. Plus, no one would expect him to be as creative as he really was.

Hermione liked the shed. And some of the things that Arthur had created had been ingenious. She figured if Arthur could enchant a car, a TV and VCR would be short work.

Hermione did eventually join the Muggle library, and checked out books of all kinds to read when she wasn’t listening to music. When she read something that she knew she needed to own, she purchased nice hardback editions. She didn’t like to buy paperbacks, knowing they’d fall apart.

At Sunday dinner, she asked Molly if she had any books she could borrow, as she knew Mrs. Weasley secretly loved wizarding romance novels. Hermione and Ginny had had a lot of fun laughing over the covers of Molly’s collection of old bodice rippers. She wrote to her mother, too, to send her any recommendations she had. Her mother sent her a few of her favorites via Muggle Post, which of course were intercepted and forwarded to Grimmauld Place.

As Harry promised, Neville did come by often. During their year away, Neville had become more confident while they were away. He’d sheltered students, counseled them, led their resistance. Neville had finally come into his own.

Hermione liked Neville, who was so happy in the garden. He made suggestions about useful plants, including things they would need for household potions, and even a few kitchen herbs. Neville was also fun to talk with, he was surprisingly funny and clever without being cruel, and he’d always had a soft spot for Hermione who had always helped him in potions.

“So, tell me about the roller skates,” he asked one Saturday morning.

“Oh, I’ll show you!” she said brightly, and apparated downstairs to get them. She had a pair of white skates with purple and pink pom poms. She had charmed her white laces neon pink.

“Aren’t they neat?!” she asked, and put them on. “One of my favorite birthdays when I was a kid was when we went to the roller rink. We invited my classmates, and we all skated and ate hot dogs and cake after.”

“Our birthdays are coming up,” he said to Harry. “Maybe we could get hot dogs and skate around?”

Harry smiled. “Ginny would have a real laugh, watching me flail about on those tiny wheels.”

“Where do you skate now?” Neville asked Hermione.

“I go into Muggle London. There are plenty of parks. I can’t skate in Diagon Alley because the streets are cobbled.”

“You sound like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“Yes, I am,” she said with a laugh. “You should skate with me some time.”

Neville smiled at her, and she skated a little around the roof to show him.

“Looks dangerous,” he said with a wink.

Hermione gave them an open invitation to join her in the park. Harry took her up on her offer first, and Neville warmed up to the idea afterward, especially after Harry told him about the ratio of cute girls to boys.

Hermione liked wandering around Muggle London. She was liked that even though she had changed so much, London remained practically the same. It was almost as if Voldemort hadn’t existed at all, which comforted her a lot.

Sometimes she flirted with the boys who rode their bikes or skateboards in the park. Sometimes with the masculine presenting girls who skateboarded and winked at her as they passed. But it never got past flirty chats. Well. For the most part.

She still felt set apart—raw, and old beyond her years. And she really was heartbroken over Ron. She had invested so much time, and so many hopes and dreams. Now, she didn’t know what the future held. And that was scarier than Voldemort.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a little drug use, and a lot of feelings.

When she wasn’t skating or flirting, or going to movie night, Hermione had spent the summer helping Harry work on the house itself. After she returned from her outings, she found Harry somewhere in the house, and helped him with whatever he was working on. Harry wanted to have Christmas at Grimmauld Place. After a series of terrible Christmases (the last one being outright obscene), Harry was determined to have a really spectacular one. Together, they repapered the drawing rooms, and painted the bedrooms, refurnished the house, and tried to replace some of the things that Mundungus Fletcher had nicked.

They talked about a lot of things, as they used muggle methods, which occupied both time and hands. Harry was unpacking a lot of his mental baggage, as he was in therapy now, too. He liked to talk things out with Hermione now and again.

He wished he’d talked a lot of things out, instead of keeping everything in, unable to trust. Things could’ve been so different.

He sighed. He couldn’t change the past. But he could control his future.

“Walberga’s really quiet now, Harry,” Hermione said, one afternoon while they painted the upstairs parlor. “What did you do to her?”

“Well,” Harry began sheepishly. “After all the aurors came through the house, she raised her usual ruckus, and cursed everyone, saying every nasty thing she could think of. And after weeks of her wailing like a banshee, and fighting the curtains, I stood in front of her portrait and just screamed. I didn’t say anything, I just…yelled… letting out seven years’ worth of rage and sadness. And she shut up and blinked at me. And I told her, with the little voice I had left, that I was here to stay, and that her sons were dead, and she could honor their memories by at least being quiet, if she couldn’t be pleasant.”

“And she listened?” Hermione asked, stunned.

“I guess so. I think of it more as a truce,” he said, rolling out the paint onto the wall.

Hermione blinked and shrugged. She went on painting.

“Do you ever think about the amount of danger we were allowed to face in school?” Harry asked out of the blue.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, dipping her paint brush in some cream-colored paint.

“Think about it. We made friends because of a troll. There was a troll loose, just running around Hogwarts about to kill you in a girls’ bathroom.”

“Well. Hogwarts has always been a dangerous place. The Forbidden Forest aren’t exactly picnic grounds, and Dumbledore hasn’t exactly shied away from danger,” she said. “Just think about your dad, and Sirius, running around with Remus. Dumbledore had to have known they were animagi, running around on full moon nights.”

Harry smiled.

“Do you feel that when you came back to the magical world, danger caught up with you, and by extension, us?” Hermione asked, paint dripping from her brush onto the canvas drop cloth.

“I’m not sure. I’m sure it was a little bit me. But you’re right, the forest, and some of Hagrid’s more interesting creatures were always going to be scary,” Harry said. “You know, I thought about it a lot while we were apparating around, looking for safe places. The safest I ever felt was at Hogwarts—and I almost died there so many times. But it was home. I had control there because I could use magic if I wanted to, and I knew I would have three meals every day, and I could fly my broom.”

Hermione looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was wiping tears away furtively, so she looked back down at her paint.

She waited several seconds to see if he’d continue.

“And I was around people who loved me,” he said, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze.

She smiled wanly at him; she knew he was still working through the Dursleys and how awful they had been to him. It seemed weird, thinking back on it now, how easily she and Ron had accepted that Harry’s homelife was terrible and that there were no alternatives.

For the first time in her life, Hermione wondered about Dumbledore and his intentions.

“Remember, Harry, family isn’t always blood,” she said, repeating the words she’d said one night in the woods, after Ron had left.

“Family isn’t always blood,” she had said. “Sometimes it’s the people who are there for you, like me and…you. We have each other’s backs. No matter what.”

Harry nodded, and continued painting.

“Growing up is weird and rough anyway, and we did it without much adult supervision. We had teachers, but we really relied on each other for comfort, and guidance. Which maybe isn’t the best idea…we all could’ve made a lot of different decisions, if we’d had trusted the adults around us,” she sighed, thinking about her parents.

“Yeah, why didn’t we have a counselor?” Harry wondered. “We had some in the muggle schools. Just a person we could go talk to about whatever we needed. I was sent a few times by a couple of teachers who weren’t really sure what to make of the Dursleys.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. Why hadn’t they had a counselor at Hogwarts? Maybe she should work on school reform after she was done with her NEWTs.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Now that’s going to bother me all day.”

Harry sighed again.

“Did I ever tell you about Miss Wilson? She was my favorite primary school teacher. Brought me lunch every day when she saw the weird scraps Aunt Petunia sent me to school with for lunch. And even after I wasn’t in her class, she still brought me lunch.”

Hermione shook her head, and smiled, glad that Harry had had one person who’d been kind to him.

“She was nice. I wished I could live with her every day that year.”

“I wish you could’ve lived anywhere else,” Hermione said truthfully.

There was a sad pause, and even the paint roller sounded forlorn.

“Anyway, it’s hard, Harry, because you didn’t grow up with trusting relationships, and I didn’t really know how the magical world worked. We did the best we could.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Or the adult supervision that we did have were absolute nutters like that Umbridge woman, which didn’t help. Or people who secretly wanted to kill me, like Barty Crouch. But I sure am glad we didn’t go to school with the Carrows.”

Hermione shivered, remembering the first night Neville had brought over some marijuana he’d grown in one of the greenhouses (since it’s just a plant, weed will work on wizards, unlike other Muggle drugs). Professor Sprout preferred it to drinking at the Three Broomsticks, and had given Neville an extracurricular lesson or two about it.

Neville had told Harry he was bringing it, and had expected to leave Hermione to her books. They were smoking on the roof when Hermione came up unexpectedly to ask Harry a question. Both boys fully expected her to lecture them on the dangers of drug use, and couldn’t have been more surprised if a Thunderbird had landed on the roof when she said, “Don’t hold out, that smells like it’s really good.”

Neville coughed, and offered her an expertly rolled joint.

“What do you know about ganja, Hermione?” he asked.

Harry’s eyes popped out when she did not say “I read about it in the library.”

“My park friends smoke out in a big drainage pipe sometimes,” she said, with a casual shrug. “Gotta go along to get along.”

She took a deep inhale, held her breath without coughing, and exhaled the smoke slowly through her nostrils. Neville and Harry weren’t sure exactly how high they were at that moment. They just looked at her and then each other.

Neville chuckled and Harry lay back to look at the stars.

After a while, Neville filled them in on the Carrows in more detail. They had been ruthless in their punishments, and Neville had suffered more than most.

Weed had made Harry a philosopher: “You know, I wonder how much that must’ve sucked for Draco. He was around that every day, man. No wonder he was such an insufferable twat, carrying that all that pain around.”

Hermione had burst into tears, and Kreacher brought them some Cherri-owls, milk, sandwiches, salt and vinegar chips and ice-cold sodas, which Harry preferred to pumpkin juice.

“But you were never a twat, Harry, and you carried around so much pain,” Hermione said.

“No, I was,” Harry said.

“Yeah, he was,” Neville agreed. Harry punched him playfully, and Hermione burst out laughing, a little too late.

“You know, I finally read that stupid Rita Skeeter book about Dumbledore,” Harry continued in the present. “I thought it was going to be chock full of lies, but some of the things she wrote really bothered me. Dumbledore was obsessed with the greater good, and not just at 17. He was so focused on the bigger picture. More than anything, more than my own personal safety. He could’ve talked to more—to explain things. Or just…”

Harry threw down his paint brush in complete irritation, and groaned.

Hermione knew he was spiraling out. He’d carried so much of this fucked up shit around, sometimes it just fell all over the place. Because she loved him, she pulled him out of his head by turning on the radio, just as he had done during their isolation.

“Harry,” she said, her hand on his arm, “Do you wanna keep talking, or do you wanna…?”

“Music,” he said firmly.

She went to her boom box, and shuffled around her CDs. Sam had made one titled, “For Angsty Days.” Hermione bobbed her head to Soundgarden’s “Fell on Black Days.”

Harry painted aggressively, and maybe a little sloppily, but he was smiling. Hermione smiled back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which even Walberga is happier.

The second day Hermione was in the house, Harry had told her that there would be very few conditions to living with him. He didn’t need rent, and everyone could come and go as they pleased, though it would be easier on Kreacher if they had set meal times. 

The only real rule was he wouldn’t hear anything about giving Kreacher clothes.

“I’ve listened to him muttering around the house. All he wants is to live here till he dies, and have his head on the wall, with his family’s,” Harry explained. “Who am I to take that away from him? When the next elf comes to take his place, I’ll ask what they want their freedom, or paying. But I won’t go insulting him. And besides, Dobby was the only one who ever took your hats and socks—he had to clean and take care of everyone in the tower alone, you know.”

Her face had fallen. She hadn’t known that.

When she discussed it later with her therapist, she suggested that Hermione had formed her opinion based on one instance of house-elf/wizard interactions.

“Harry doesn’t seem to be the only headlong, headstrong Gryffindor,” her therapist said.

Hermione had sighed, realizing she had a lot to learn about a lot of things.

Harry was unfailingly kind to Kreacher, who returned to the house when Harry did. Before they had left to the Ministry that fateful day last year, Harry had ordered Kreacher to work in the Hogwarts kitchens if they didn’t return. Harry learned how to give firm, but kind orders. As such, Kreacher grew more and more mellow, and let them send the troll leg umbrella stand to Borgin & Burkes, along with a few remaining grisly items.

If Kreacher minded Hermione and Ron, he no longer said so. Hermione was kind to him, and appreciated all his work around the house. It was much easier to enjoy her second childhood when she had no chores.

Kreacher even let Harry repaint the boiler room and refinish the floor. Hermione noticed that Kreacher was using the quilt she had given him, and he now had a little bed in there, like the one she’d seen at Hogwarts. Harry had let Kreacher hang his photos of various Blacks. After all, he had served them and loved them. Regulus was in pride of place, next to Sirius, and Bellatrix sulked somewhere off to the edge of the photos. Harry was incredibly surprised to find himself feeling just the tiniest bit sorry for Bellatrix, that she had been so lost that she sought refuge in Voldemort.

The house, which Harry had claimed with a little bit of blood over the front door jamb, recognized him as rightful owner, and seemed to drink in all of Harry and his friends’ positive energy and joy. Harry was glad to have a place to call home, and Grimmauld Place, under its aged crust, was happy to be loved again.

After a couple of months of therapy, it occurred to Harry that maybe Walberga would benefit from a little therapy, too. She had maintained her stony silence. But as she was a permanent fixture in his house (Harry had even tried blood magic to remove her portrait, but they must’ve been too distantly related for it to work), he wanted more than that from her, and for her.

He went to talk to the director of the department at St. Mungo’s and set up a meeting to speak with him and some memory portrait experts.

“It’s been theorized that memory portraits glean their magic from their living relatives. It’s been written that some portraits can go still or vanish from their frames once their family line has died. It is rumored that la Gioconda, or the Mona Lisa, in Paris is such a portrait,” said one of the historians. “If this portrait was related to the Black family, as you say, then she would’ve also suffered under the dementors during her family’s imprisonment in Azkaban.”

“It would be a real interesting challenge to us, of course,” one of the therapists added. “And a real boon to our research into memory, magic, and the psyche.”

Harry was more than happy to fund some research into the subject. As the portrait had a permanent sticking charm, it was necessary for a historian or a therapist to make the journey to Grimmauld Place.

They started by thoroughly cleaning and restoring Walberga’s portrait, which she had hated at first, but when she realized they weren’t harming her portrait, she relented. Then the therapist would sit with Walberga, trying to get to the bottom of her rage.

Walberga’s haughty features would never look totally pleasant, Harry did catch her listening in interestedly into their conversations, and whispering to Kreacher, asking after their health and well-being.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay.

One Sunday, Hermione faced another day of doing nothing, after so many days of singular focus and intent. Harry had gone off to go fly in one of the Quidditch pitches near London, which were available to the general public during the offseason. Ron was working and flirting.

She decided to take a walk, and grabbed her yellow Sports Discman, which she had taken apart and charmed back together to play without batteries. Batteries never could never keep their charge for long around her. She and Arthur had had fun with that over a Sunday afternoon.

They were now working on a computer tower, as she wanted to be able to email her parents, and look up things on the internet. Sam had told her about Napster, and LimeWire. She wasn’t very keen on stealing music, but she wanted to be able to hear some of these artists coming out of America that Sam had found—Cat Power, Modest Mouse, Neutral Milk Hotel, Lauryn Hill and Outkast.

Plus, it helped her decide which albums to buy. She had to put a limit on how much she could spend at a time. But it was hard because she’d missed out on so much. Besides, she had to concede Sam’s point—sometimes there were only three or four good songs on an album. Her rule was she had to like at least half of an album before she bought it.

The movie last night had been “Trainspotting” which she had never seen. It left her feeling agitated and sad and weirdly hopeful. She liked Ewan McGregor, though. He was cute.

And Sam was right again—the soundtrack had been pretty perfect.

Hermione found herself in the back of a used books store. She sat on the floor, looking through a pile of old art and fashion magazines. She bought a huge stack of them, intent on cutting out photos she liked to make some collages.  
In one of the magazines she found an old interview with a London designer named Alexander McQueen. She liked his clothes, and she especially liked what he said about one of his collections:

_“I design clothes because I don’t want women to look all innocent and naïve. I want women to look stronger. I don’t like women to be taken advantage of, I don’t like men whistling at women in the street. I think they deserve more respect. … I want people to be afraid of the women I dress.”_

Hermione wanted to be strong and respected. And she sometimes secretly wished she were scary enough to frighten away Bellatrix who still lurked in the dark…

Hermione, who lived in her head, had never really thought about her clothes before. She usually wore the same things until she outgrew them, or her mother replaced them.

Now, she had to dress herself. She liked thrifting with Beth, and they went to some department stores together. But she had never thought about her clothes as a projection of her inward self.

This was an interesting concept. She started looking for things that reminded her of the clothes she saw in the high fashion magazines. She couldn’t afford Dior, or McQueen, but she could look for things that felt like them.

She asked Molly to teach her some of the spells she used to mend and repair clothes, as some of the things she found had definitely seen better days, and Molly was more than adept at these types of spells. Hermione especially liked finding things that had been handmade by someone.

She chose to wear muggle clothes, rather than getting things in Diagon Alley. She’d been teased and bullied for years now about being Muggleborn.

“So be a muggleborn witch,” she thought to herself.

She liked stomping around in her Doc Marten boots, which she’d bought after seeing Beth’s pair. She liked the wide legged pants and spaghetti strapped tank tops. She liked the satiny old nightgowns she wore under little cardigans as slip dresses.

With Beth’s help, Hermione flirted with lipsticks and glosses and frosty eye shadows.

“This is, like, putting on armor,” Beth said, while she put a red lipstick on Hermione’s lips.

It was Revlon’s “Cherries in the Snow” which is almost everyone’s first red lipstick.

Hermione just looked at herself in the mirror. She had a nice mouth, a generous mouth. A firm, and frank mouth, that wanted to be kissed.

“Damn. If I liked girls, I would kiss you,” Beth said. “I might kiss you anyway. Ugh, so hot.”

Hermione laughed, and Beth taught her to apply eyeliner, and how to apply mascara without it clumping. She taught Hermione how to pick apart her lashes with the end of a safety pin. Just in case. She taught Hermione how to line her waterline, “…but not too often, and clean your pencil with an alcohol swipe beforehand. It’s no good getting an eye infection.”

Hermione sometimes felt inadequate when it came to her femininity, but she was learning the effect her body had, while she skated, and during her chats in the park. She was learning how to tame her hair, and how to smile for photos with friends.  
It felt good, after Ron’s sudden and inexorable rejection. But she wouldn’t think about that.

She had her own hell to raise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAC didn't introduce Ruby Woo until 1999. So Hermione will have to wait.


	10. Chapter 10

The fourth time The Smiths’ “I Know It’s Over” began to play, Harry decided to knock on Hermione’s door.

“Hermione?” he asked tentatively.

“Come in,” she said. She was lying on the floor of her room, with her head near the boombox. She was crying, and looked sheepishly at Harry, as he opened her door.

“Sorry, is the music bothering you? I can use my headphones.”

“No, it’s fine. I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m just feeling all my feelings,” she said. “I was feeling sad about what’s-his-face, and just sorry for myself, and thinking about all sorts of depressing things.”

Harry nodded. He knew what she meant. He was so used to Hermione being strong and logical. He’d never really seen this side of her—except for the once with the birds. And for a few fleeting seconds at a time in the tent after Ron left. He knew she was hurting.

But since starting her therapy sessions, she was more likely to cry, or to laugh, or to listen to a lot of music. Harry was glad that Sam had made her this particular CD. Harry liked most of Sam’s mixes.

“Can I lay down with you?” Harry asked.

“Of course. Plenty of room on the floor for sad sacks.” Hermione patted the carpet.

Harry smiled and lay down on her carpet, his head near her head. Harry had plenty of his own things to be sad about.

She started her “Sad Bastard Music” mix over again, and they lay on the floor as Elliott Smith’s “Alameda” began to play.

She sighed, and resumed her musings about ol’ what’s-his-face and all their wasted time and potential, and what she’d done to her parents, what Bellatrix had done to her, how she’d never had real girlfriends at Hogwarts, which she found herself sadder about that than the other things. She had no romantic prospects. She felt properly sorry for herself. Meanwhile, Harry thought about everyone he’d lost, and how he’d never had a loving home of his own until now.

Hermione knew they were very sad about very different things. But her therapist pointed out that trauma was trauma, and that grief wasn’t a contest.

When the CD ended, they looked at each other’s faces, and began to laugh. Hermione sat up and handed him her box of tissue. They were a mess of tears and snot.

They laughed some more, as they blew their noses and got up and hugged.

“Thanks for letting me be sad with you,” Harry said.

“Any time,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“Let’s walk to the corner and get an ice cream sandwich,” Harry said.

“Good idea.”

They got their ice cream, and took a walk in the park. Just two teenagers, who didn’t know what the future held for them, or what the world at large would do with them.

But they had their friendship, and that was a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would anyone be interested in a playlist? I may or may not have thought a lot about them...


	11. Chapter 11

She began her lessons on September 2. She had bought her textbooks, and Headmistress McGonagall had connected their floo to her office fire, if she needed to travel to Hogwarts for extra help, and on weekends when she used the Herbology Greenhouses. Neville was apprenticing under Professor Spout, so they spent an hour or so together on Saturday mornings in the greenhouses.

“You seem really happy here, Neville,” she commented, while the Venomous Tentacula played with her curls.

“I am,” Neville said with a grin. “Professor Sprout has always been kind to me. She wants to retire in the next few years, so I hope I will be a worthy candidate to take her place. She’s letting me lead half of the first-year classes, and I had my first couple of classes this past week. I think I’m a pretty good teacher! It’s nice, finally being good at something.”

Hermione nodded, and smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re so happy. I still don’t know what I’m meant to do.”

“Well, you have this year to think on it,” Neville said with a shrug. “There’s no real hurry. How’s the rest of your studying coming?”

“Honestly, it’s a lot easier and faster since I’m not doing Ron and Harry’s homework anymore,” she said with a laugh.

Neville smiled. Hermione had always been very generous with her time.

“The only thing I really miss about Hogwarts is the library,” she said. “But I like being at Harry’s, and being able to keep up with my music and new friends. This arrangement is pretty great, actually. The best of both worlds.”

Neville noticed a change in Hermione over the past several weeks. She didn’t lecture, or overexplain, or talk to anyone in her old imperious tone. She listened patiently to Neville when he explained to her about the plants they’d be working with. And if she knew everything already, from reading, she wasn’t in a hurry to prove it. She asked questions, rather than spouting off rote knowledge.

After their lesson had ended, he decided to ask her about it.

“Hermione, you seem really different.”

“Not so bossy or over-critical, you mean?”

Neville gave a nervous giggle. “I’d never say that.”

“But you’d think it,” Hermione said serenely.

Neville started a little guiltily. Had she learned legilimency?

Hermione laughed at his expression. “I suppose I’ve changed a little. My Muggle summer helped—I couldn’t go off spouting all of my magical knowledge, and the Muggle world has changed so much over the last few years, that I couldn’t ask a lot of questions, or people would know something was not right with me. So, I just listened a lot, acting like I already knew what was up. But, really, in a strange way, Bellatrix is responsible for most of it.”

“Bellatrix?” said Neville, completely taken aback by the mention of her name. He thought immediately of the Crutiatus curse, and wondered how it had affected her.

“Was it because she…?” Neville asked.

“Sort of,” Hermione said slowly, tears welling up and falling onto the dusty work table, her fingers at the scar on her neck. “And not a single thing I knew helped me in that moment. Not a spell, or a charm. I was so sure I was going to die.”

Neville hugged her, and offered her his handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry, Neville,” she said, wiping away her tears.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Neville said, holding her tighter. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you shared.”

She gave him a little smile, as he let go. She sighed and helped Neville clear up, and asked if she could plant a few things next week. He set her up with her own little corner. They went back Grimmauld Place, and had breakfast with Harry and Ron. Afterward, Neville went to see his parents at St. Mungo’s.

Hermione spent the rest of her morning looking over the old potions book that had belonged to the Half-Blood Prince. Harry had grabbed it from the cabinet before he grabbed the diadem. He didn’t want all of Snape’s knowledge to languish in a cabinet, which was lucky, as the Fiendfyre would’ve destroyed it all.

Harry had lent it the book to Hermione, figuring some of the tips might come in useful during her NEWT year.

She had to admit, it really did make for interesting reading.

After Harry had told her what he’d seen in the Pensieve, she was a little more tolerant of the book, and definitely more sympathetic to the man who had written in it. It was strange, how little they knew about the people who had shaped their lives.

She wondered about him, and Dumbledore, and all the rest who had figured so largely in their daily lives.

That night she wrote a letter to her parents, and also addressed one to Kingsley Shacklebolt.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Oliver finally arrives.

Hermione had gone out into muggle London to shop—her parents had sent her a birthday card with birthday money in it (a rather large collection of loose pound notes in various denominations).

Harry and Ron offered to throw her a party, but she wasn’t sure she was ready for a crowd. Besides, Molly would make her a cake at dinner the next day, and that would be enough.

At lunch time, Kreacher surprised her with a little sticky toffee pudding all her own; he knew it was her favorite.

She hadn’t told any of her muggle friends it was her birthday. She didn’t want to go out, or have them make any fuss over her. Instead, she counted up her birthday money, and decided to have her hair cut as a birthday treat. She had found a muggle stylist who specialized in curly hair. She left the salon feeling bouncy and light, and had a bag full of products she felt determined to use every day.

She went to see Sam, who complimented her hair. She bought a few more CDs—Harry, Ron and George had gone in together on a rather large gift certificate to Sam’s store.

Sam asked about the certificate, and Hermione confessed it was her birthday. When Sam’s coworker came in, he took her for an ice cream.

Later, she went to see Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels by herself. There weren’t too many people in the theatre, and she laughed along with the person sitting in front of her. They laughed at all the same things, and when the movie was over, he turned around. She smiled at him and gave a little wave.

“How do I know you?” he asked, squinting at her, as if that would help him remember. There was something familiar about her curly hair, which framed her face beautifully.

“Impervius,” she said, as a hint. She had known him as soon as he’d turned around. She never forgot a face, one of the many useful skills that had saved her life.

Oliver Wood laughed, remembering a long-ago quidditch match in the rain, and a bushy-haired, bucktoothed girl coming to charm Harry’s glasses.

“What brings you to London?” she asked.

“I spent a little time with George Weasley today, and then decided to see this movie,” he said. “You?”

“Birthday shopping,” she said, holding up her muggle bags. Occasionally she would use the undetectable extension charm, but she enjoyed carrying her bags tonight—a reminder that she didn’t have to keep her hands free to reach for her wand if she didn’t want to. She’d finally been able to see Mr. Olivander, on September 1 instead of taking the train. She had a new wand: pear and dragon heartstring, 11-and-one-quarter inches, resilient.

“Is today your birthday?” he asked.

She nodded, “Today’s the day.”

“What are you doing right now? I don’t know of any Samoan pubs, but I can buy you a drink at the Leaky Cauldron?” he smiled at her.

She laughed. “Sure, that’d be great.”

He took her bags, and offered her his arm, and they walked out of the theatre and down the street together.

Neither of them said much as they walked, as she was fine in the silence, and he didn’t seem to mind it. She instantly liked that about him. She had spent so much time in her own head in that last year that she’d grown quiet.

It was getting a little chilly, and Oliver radiated heat. She unconsciously pressed into him as they walked.

“So how old are you now?” Oliver asked, making small talk as they walked to the bar.

“I just turned 19,” she said.

“What do you think this year will bring you?” he asked.

“A lot of studying—I’m taking my NEWTs this year.”

He whistled a low note. “I remember those. They really are ‘Nastily Exhausting.’ Are you going back then?”

“No. I’m doing at-home study for too many courses—Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. But maybe I can pass the DADA test without too much studying,” she joked.

“I bet you could,” he said, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

They reached the bar soon after and held the door open for her. She smiled up at him as she walked past, thinking about how solid his arm had felt, and how tall he was. Oliver was good-looking, with friendly brown eyes, a strong jaw, and dark brown hair that he wore in an undercut, slightly too long on top.

The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t so crowded. She chose a corner table, near the fire, where she could sit with her back to the wall. She’d learned that move as a kid from watching westerns with her father.

Oliver asked her what she wanted. she surprised him by saying she’d have a firewhiskey.

“But Tom will know,” she said, with a wave to Tom.

Tom had made her a firewhiskey sour with two cherries. Oliver ordered the same out of curiousity, though Tom had only given him one cherry.

“Is that how it is?” Oliver joked.

Tom gave him a surly look.

“Will you put a little umbrella in?” Oliver asked.

Tom rolled his eyes, and a little umbrella appeared on Hermione’s drink, and Tom waved Oliver away with his bar towel.

Hermione smiled at the umbrella. “He didn’t have a pineapple?”

“I thought it might take too much time,” Oliver grinned.

They held their drinks in their hands, and she did her best to look him in the eye, and not past him. There was no danger to search for. She was still working through this.

“Are you still playing for Puddlemere United?” she asked, though she knew the answer. Harry and Ron had followed quidditch in the Daily Prophet while they were at school. Occasionally, they had picked up a game while they were hunting Horcruxes. It had been one of the very few normal things they could hang onto.

“Yeah. I love it. The season won’t start until November, though we have preseason training that starts up soon.”

“You’re one of the best reserve keepers in the league,” she said. “Or so Harry says.”

“So Harry says?” Oliver asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, Harry is my roommate here in London,” she said, hopefully dispelling any ideas he might have. “Do you live in London? Or…”

“In the offseason I stay with my parents in Scotland, and during the season I share a little house with a couple teammates that’s nearer the pitch. That way I don’t drive my parents crazy with all my lean protein and the balance and speed drills. Plus, I don’t have to get up as early,” he said. “I usually just floo into the bar so I can go to the movies, or into the Alley to see George.”

“I worry about George,” Hermione said with a sigh. “I’m glad you are still friends.”

Oliver nodded. He’d seen George a lot that summer. He knew George wasn’t doing well—throwing himself into work, forgetting to eat, and not sleeping enough.

Oliver had gotten him good and drunk a few times, and taken him out to Muggle bars to chat up girls. He could see George spark to life then, and Oliver took him home and put him to bed before he got too melancholy.

“I kept in touch with the twins after I left Hogwarts,” Oliver said. “He and Fred would always send these hysterical letters. I was glad to hear about the joke shop.”

Hermione smiled, and remembered seeing Oliver that night at the battle. She wondered if Fred and George had been the ones to tell him about it. She didn’t want to ask about it yet. They could talk about it some other night, hopefully some night far, far into the future.

“I had given them a little seed money, enough for supplies to test some of their products,” he said, thinking of the snack boxes. “I couldn’t convince them it was a gift.”

“That was kind of you, I didn’t know that,” she said.

Oliver shrugged. “I like the Weasleys.”

“Me, too,” Hermione smiled, and stopped herself from adding, “Most of them, anyway.”

“So, you saw a movie,” Oliver said, changing the subject, hoping to talk of happier things. “What else did you do for your birthday?”

“I saw some friends, bought some music. I got a haircut,” she said, with a laugh.

“It’s nice,” he said. “You look really good.”

They smiled at each other, and she blushed. In Molly’s novels there was never any awkward moments. But how do you avoid awkward moments in real life?

“So, are you seeing anyone these days?” he asked.

She shook her head, and he said, “Me neither.”

They smiled again, and were both quiet for a few beats.

“How many movies have you seen lately?” he said and smiled encouragingly at her. He could tell that she was nervous, and that it was making her a little shy.

“All of them,” she said with a shrug. “I took the summer off and saw my parents in Australia. I came back to stay with Harry in London, and wandered all around the Muggle parts of the city. And now, I am studying for my NEWTs and helping Harry fix up his place.”

“Do you know what you’ll do after your exams?”

“Not yet. I haven’t decided what to do with myself. I always thought I would work for the ministry, but lately I’ve been thinking that I’ll teach kindergarten.”

“What’s that?”

“Muggle school for really young kids.”

Oliver wisely did not say that this would be a waste of her talents.

“I haven’t given much thought to what I’ll do when I can’t play anymore. Maybe coach. Maybe just sweep up the stadium.” he laughed. “I didn’t do quite as many NEWTs as you, just the five core subjects, and Arithmancy. I was always dead set on playing quidditch professionally, but my mother wanted me to have some options.”

“You like Arithmancy?” her eyes wide. Her Arithmancy classes hadn’t been very popular. Only ten people in her year opted in.

“Yeah, it’s really interesting,” Oliver said.

“I used to think I knew exactly what I wanted to do,” Hermione said. “But after this last year, I’ve been feeling like I’m not sure what I want to do with myself. My parents would like to see me become a dentist, but I can’t go back to Muggle life. Not completely anyway.”

She smiled. Really, she hadn’t stopped smiling. This was new. This was nice.

After a while, Oliver got them another round, and Hermione loosened up a lot. Oliver had made her laugh a few times. He liked her laugh, which was big and almost too loud. They talked for more than an hour: about Arithmancy, her ambitions, or lack thereof. She told him about the roller skates, and all the music she’d been listening to—she especially appreciated the movie’s soundtrack.

“So how did you hear about this movie?” she asked.

“I see a lot of movies actually,” he said. “A muggleborn teammate introduced me to movies a couple of years ago. They’re so strange, these moving pictures. but I enjoy them. I don’t know too much about muggle life. Just what I see in movies. And I like pizza, but more than that is a mystery.”

Oliver took a genuine interest in her activities, and asked her plenty of questions, especially about the roller skates. Never once did she feel like he was humoring her, or that he was bemused by her, as Ron often had been.

As they talked Hermione was thrilled to realize that he hadn’t asked her one single thing about You-Know-Who. Usually it was the first thing wizards and witches she’d encountered had said to her: “Tell me—what was it like fighting him?”

It always made her shrink a little.

“So, I know you live with Harry. Who else do you see these days? And why wouldn’t any of them go to a movie on your birthday?” Oliver asked.

She laughed.

“I had dinner with Harry, Ron and George Weasley the other night, and I see Neville Longbottom, as he comes to visit often, and I see Hannah Abbot, she was in my year, and Cho Chang sometimes. Do you remember her?”

“Seeker for Ravenclaw.” He smiled.

“She’s working in Diagon Alley. But usually, I like going to the movies by myself,” she said.

“But hopefully not all the time?” he asked.

She blushed. “No, not all the time.”

“Will you go see one with me next week?” he asked, and crossed his fingers.

“I would love that,” she smiled.

Oliver knew he should pay their tab—Tom was already leaning up against the wall behind the bar with his eyes closed; it was late. But he hesitated. They were having such a nice time.

“Do you want to come say hi to Harry?” she asked, hopefully.

“Is it too late tonight?” He didn’t want to say goodnight to her yet, though he knew he would have to eventually.

“No, he’ll be up. He slept till noon today. We’ve been very lax about our schedules lately.”

“Let’s go then.” Oliver said, grinning.

He went to settle their bill and she waited for him by the back door that lead out to Diagon Alley. She sent Harry a message by Patronus that Oliver Wood would be coming home with her to visit. Harry raised his eyebrows when he got the message, but was more than happy for a chance to see his old quidditch captain.

Harry bounded upstairs to change from his pajamas, as he’d not bothered to get dressed that day. Kreacher would be glad to get these clothes off him, he thought as he sniffed his right underarm and exhaled out his mouth in disgust. He took a quick shower and was dry and dressed before they had apparated to the door.

Hermione knew Harry would probably need a few minutes, as he hadn’t gotten dressed before she left the house, so she went out though Diagon Alley.

“Harry’s place has some enhanced security, so we’ll have to apparate,” she said. “I sent him a message, so he knows we’re coming, but I want to give him a few minutes.”

Oliver nodded and unzipped his Puddlemere United jumper, and offered it to her.

“Put this on? It’s pretty cold out,” he said. It wasn’t an order, just a suggestion.

She shivered. She’d worn her dress because she liked it, not because it was weather appropriate. She complied, even though she had a sweater in her handbag.

He offered her his arm, and they walked down the street together. Hermione had put her bags into her handbag, and held onto Oliver with both hands.

“It must be nice to be right here in London,” Oliver said.

“Yes, I think so,” Hermione said, watching George’s laboratory light go out as they walked past Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes.

They continued walking, not really going anywhere, and she laughed a little to herself as she looked up at Gringott’s, and she imagined a Ukrainian Ironbelly emerging from beneath its roof. Oliver just looked quizzically at her, and turned toward the bank, remembering the Daily Prophet photo from the special evening edition.

They stood outside Florian Fortesque’s old shop, which was still empty, and she stood on the bottom step of the stoop, making it so she was a little more level with him.

“Maybe I should sell ice cream,” she mused.

Oliver smiled at her. “I think you’ll be brilliant whatever you decide to do.”

“Just in case I don’t get to say so later, I had a really nice time with you tonight. I’m glad you said hello to me,” she said.

“Aye, me, too,” he said.

They smiled at each other, and he thought about kissing her—he had thought about it a couple of times during their conversation in the bar. He knew she’d thought about it. But before he could decide, she leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

“That might be the two drinks, but it was a little bit me, too,” she said.

He laughed. “Well, I hope it was a lot you.”

Her face was already flushed, and she admitted “It was!”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments, and he kissed her again.

Hermione grinned and touched his mouth.

“You have lipstick all over you,” she laughed. She wordlessly disappeared the red smears from their faces.

She held out her hand.

“Ready?”

Oliver took her hand to apparate, and found himself on the Grimmauld Place stoop.

He kissed her cheek and she smiled and tapped the door with her wand to open it, and Harry bounded down the stairs and met them in the foyer. From her frame, Walberga glared suspiciously at the newcomer.

“Oliver!” Harry exclaimed. They shook hands firmly and then hugged—Harry hugged everyone now. “I was surprised to hear that you were coming.”

“I was surprised to see Hermione out tonight.”

“She does love movies. I think she’s seen everything playing in London. A few things I know she’s seen twice, as she’s dragged me out to see a few of them.”

They went to sit down in the drawing room nearest the door, which was very tidy, and comfortable, as Kreacher had lit a fire earlier that evening. Harry opened the bar, and poured them a shot each of firewhiskey.

“To old friends,” he said, and they all drank, thankful for each other, and silently remembering the friends they’d never see again.

“So!” Harry said, excitedly, “Tell me everything about playing for Puddlemere United!”

Oliver laughed, and Hermione watched them talk excitedly about quidditch. it was good to see Harry so happy to talk about something that had interested him before.

As the boys talked about quidditch, she caught herself huffing Oliver’s jumper, smelling his cologne. It was very rich-smelling, very woody, and spicy and there was something about it that was intensely comforting. It was vanilla, she realized.

As they boys went on and on about quidditch, she recalled the afternoon Harry had planted a blackthorn tree for his new Tawny Owl, Dwyenen.

As he worked, Harry told her that he and Ginny were taking things very slowly; they’d both been touched by such a dark evil, that it was to their benefit to just remember they could just like each other, and take their time. They both wanted a life that was theirs, and not Voldemort’s.

Hermione thought that was smart—a story of their own. She’d thought about that a lot after her appointments: who was she apart from the clever friend of a hero?

She wondered if Oliver would be interested in finding out with her.

Oliver would occasionally look over at her, to make sure she wasn’t bored, or falling asleep. He slowly changed the subject to include her, which she appreciated, as she could tell he could talk about quidditch for hours. For a sport she didn’t really care about, she sure ended up hearing and knowing a lot about it.

Oliver asked questions about the muggle world, telling Harry that all he knew was that he liked movies, and pizza, but beyond that didn’t know too much about it.

Oliver had always known what he could do was magic, as both his parents were magical. Harry told Oliver about the zoo, and Dudley and the boa constrictor. Hermione told them about flying off swing sets, and landing safely too many feet away. She’d been a rough and tumble kid, but was never really hurt.

“Once, I wished a little bird would land on my finger, like in Snow White, and it did!” she said.

“Isn’t snow always white? I don’t understand.” Oliver looked very confused.

Hermione laughed, and explained that she’d grown up with other children’s stories.

“I wasn’t sure what all the little coincidental things meant until I got her letter,” she said, remembering Professor McGonagall coming to her house to deliver the letter, and answer her parents’ questions.

Harry didn’t have much fondness for the Muggle world, feeling most at home in the Wizarding world. Hermione liked both.

Various salty snacks and bottled drinks appeared on the table next to them.

“Thanks, Kreacher!” Harry yelled into the air. The trio talked until three in the morning.

“You should stay the night,” Harry suggested. “I know Kreacher will have made up one of the bedrooms for you.”

Oliver yawned and agreed.

They all walked up the stairs, Hermione went to her room, and the door across from hers was open for Oliver.

“Good night, everyone,” Oliver said.

“Good night,” Harry and Hermione chorused.

A few minutes later, after washing her face hurriedly and dressing for bed, Hermione crept across the hall and tapped lightly on Oliver’s door. He opened it, hoping to see her.

She crept passed him. “I wasn’t sure if Kreacher left anything out for you to sleep in.”

It was a very flimsy excuse. Of course, Kreacher had; he’d set out a pair of pajamas. Oliver had put on the pants.

“If you leave your things on the chair, Kreacher will take care of them for you.”

He nodded, most of his clothes already on the chair. He took off his undershirt and placed it on top. He didn’t usually sleep in more than that, and usually slept in less, as his body temperature ran warm.

She looked down, sneaking a glance at him from behind her eyelashes. She’d lost most of her modesty living with Harry and Ron in a tent for a year, bathing in ponds or pools, or sometimes just heating up a little water on the stove and washing with a cloth in the tent. But neither of them had looked like this. Oliver was all muscle. She didn’t even know the name for some of the muscles he had. The pajama pants were tied slightly too big and hung provocatively off his hips.

He was careful not to smirk at her. “Knut for your thoughts?”

“I was just thinking…that you have to be very strong to play professional quidditch,” she said, and bit her lip.

“So you do,” he said.

He hadn’t moved from the chair, sensing her eagerness, but also her slight fear in the moment. She stepped toward him and ran her fingers lightly down his arms. He turned his head up to meet hers as she leaned down to kiss him.

He was very careful not to grab her, but instead ran his hands softly up the backs of her thighs. He stood up, and bent to kiss her neck and shoulders.

She sighed. Their breaths were minty, having both swished the teeth cleaning potion Kreacher had set out in a little phial.

“Everything ok?” he asked.

“Yes, just…”

“Is this too much?” Oliver looked concerned. “We don’t have to do anything. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable or pressured. I know we’ve only spent a few hours together…but I really like you.”

“I like you, too.” she said.

They kissed a while more. He was very gentle and tender with her, which surprised her, but she was glad. She had maybe expected him to be cocky like Cormac. But Oliver wasn’t. He let her hands drift wherever she wanted, and his hands seemed to react instinctively to her. He seemed to know what was just enough.

“Do you want to sleep here tonight?” he asked, taking a chance. “Just sleep? Nothing else, I promise.”

She nodded. While they kissed she had thought that more than anything, she wanted to sleep with his arm around her, thinking that just maybe Bellatrix, forever lurking in the dark, would keep away.

As, they fell asleep, he held her close. She started awake a few hours later, and closed her eyes, remembering where she was, and who she was with. She grinned into her pillow.

“Maybe I do only like really good quidditch players,” she thought as she drifted off to sleep again.

She woke up a little before 10 a.m., and found herself with her head on his chest. She was embarrassed to see she’d drooled on him. She grimaced, and wiped it up with a bit of the sheet. He started to laugh silently, his belly giving him away.

“It happens,” he whispered with his eyes closed.

“Oh no….” she muttered, dropping her head to his chest.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” she said into his chest. She turned to look away and said, “Oh!”

“That happens, too,” he said, his eyes still closed, but he knew he was erect. He’d suffered through all the “Morning, Wood!” jokes and all its variations while at Hogwarts. He took a deep breath. “It’ll go away by itself, but if it’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll get up and jog or something.”

“Can I…” she reached her hand downward.

He looked at her sleepily, and took her hand into his. “Have you?”

She blushed and shook her head.

“Do you want to?”

She nodded, still blushing.

He let go of her hand, and felt it slide past his waistband, and took a deep breath while she wrapped her fingers around him appraisingly.

“So…what do you think?” he asked. He remembered her spending so much time in the library. Besides, hanging around Harry and Ron probably hadn’t given anyone else much opportunity, or encouragement.

She let go, and furrowed her brow. “Oliver, I don’t know how this is supposed to go,” she admitted. “My first and only real boyfriend was Viktor Krum in 4th year, during the Triwizard Tournament. We met in the library,” she said, and Oliver smiled to himself. 

“But it was only snogging,” she blazed on. “He was really nice, and not at all aggressive, when I told him I hadn’t… Anyway, it might have been more, if I’d have gone to visit him that summer like he’d asked, but…” she paused.

Should she tell him about Ron? She should.

“I had a huge crush on Ron Weasley. So, I didn’t go. Then I went out with someone to make Ron Weasley jealous in the 6th year, and that guy was a total octopus, too many hands and all slimy kisses. Ugh. I hated it. Ron and I finally kissed, but that was months ago, and only the once, and I still haven’t…” she concluded lamely, lifting her eyebrows.

All of a sudden, she was anxious. Just how many girls had he slept with? One? Five? A hundred? Her brain started whirring.

Almost like he could hear her anxiety kick in, he put his arms around her.

“We can go as fast or as slow as you want,” he said. “I went out with a few girls at Hogwarts, kissing and such in empty classrooms.”

She raised her eyebrows at ‘and such,” but he continued. “I was mostly interested in winning quidditch matches, and getting through my homework. I’ve learned the hard way that that doesn’t make for a good boyfriend. Since joining Puddlemere, I’ve slept with a few people, but haven’t had any real serious relationships. Again, I’m just an idiot who is mostly interested in quidditch.”

Her face was impassive, and he realized what this must sound like to this tender and sensitive soul. She was too quiet, and he thought he’d really put his foot in it.

“I should go before Harry comes down. Are you hungry? It’s Sunday, and I bet Kreacher will make a nice fry up for breakfast,” she said, whipping the covers off and swinging her legs off the bed. He sat up and put his hand on hers before she jumped off.

“Hey,” he said, looking into her eyes, as she turned to look at him. “I apologize if I said anything that might make you think I won’t take you seriously. I’d really like to learn how to be good to you.”

“I’d really like that,” she said, smiling at him. Her eyes had gone soft, and she kissed him gently on the cheek. “Meet you in the hall in a few minutes?”

He nodded and reached out and grabbed her hand. She turned around and he pulled her in to kiss her softly on the mouth.

“I mean it,” he said.

She grinned at him, and then snuck out the door.

Oliver got dressed quickly, all smiles, and Hermione met him in the hall and held out his jumper. She held it taut, and only gave it to him when he kissed her again, and they went downstairs hand in hand. Walberga raising her eyebrows at them as they passed.

“Good morning, this is Oliver Wood,” Hermione said, introducing Oliver to Walberga’s portrait. “I apologize for not introducing him last night. That was rude of me.”

“Good morning,” Oliver said, nodding politely.

Walberga smiled imperiously at them. As they walked away, Hermione turned around to grin at her. Walberga winked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen this movie, you really should. [Lock Stock Samoan Pub Scene](https://youtu.be/U2oq_gY_E4w)


	13. Chapter 13

Kreacher had, in fact, made full English breakfast.

Harry came down as they were served, and he smiled at his friends. He had seen Oliver kiss Hermione as he had looked over the bannister, their movements catching his eye. He had given them a couple of minutes, and took in the fact that they were sitting across from each other and that Hermione was smiling, no, grinning, and that Oliver was doing his best to keep her so.

Harry was nothing if not observant.

“Good morning, everyone!” Harry said, cheerfully, and sat at the head of the table.

“Hi, this is an excellent breakfast,” Oliver said, waving a piece of bread at him. “You’re very lucky.”

“I am very lucky. Kreacher is a very good cook, and a very loyal servant of the House of Black.”

“Thank you, Master Harry,” Kreacher said, popping out of nowhere. “Please eat your breakfast.”

“House of Black?” Oliver looked confused.

“She didn’t tell you?” Harry asked, as he tucked into his eggs and tomato. His face carefully blank.

“No, just that your godfather had left you this place.”

“Yeah. My godfather, Sirius Black.” Harry took a slightly savage stab at a sausage.

“Oh wow,” was all Oliver said, remembering the year Black had escaped, which also brought Harry’s Firebolt and their Quidditch Cup victory. That had been Oliver’s last year at Hogwarts. He’d heard a lot about Harry from Fred and George, but they’d kept Harry’s secret, and hadn’t told him that.

“Yeah.” Harry said, again, taking a sip of his coffee. it was just how he liked it, a lot of milk and a little sugar.

“What are your plans for today? Let’s floo George and head to the Burrow for quidditch. Charlie’s home, and with you we can play three on three. It’s Sunday dinner at The Burrow anyway,” Harry continued. “Molly won’t mind having another guest.”

“That’d be great,” Oliver said enthusiastically.

They ate their breakfast and chatted a lot about nothing. Oliver, who had a lot of questions, kept them to himself, respecting Harry’s swift change of subject.

They talked about brooms. Oliver now flew a customized professional model Cleansweep that was really very good, and in some ways, he preferred it to the Firebolt. He was looking forward to flying, and to seeing the Weasleys. He hadn’t been to the Burrow in a few years. He’d gone a few times the summer after Charlie graduated, and a few times at the twins’ request.

George was thrilled to hear from them both, and went to wake up Ron who had stayed the night at his place.

Oliver went home and back for his broom.

He gave his mother a quick hug, and whistled while ran upstairs to change into his trainers and grabbed two of his brooms, so Harry, or whomever, could try one if they wanted. His mother handed him a scarf as he kissed her goodbye, and grabbed a pinch of floo powder. She raised her eyebrows at him, as he grinned, flashing on Hermione smiling at him as they sat together at the Leaky Cauldron. He waggled his eyebrows at her as he disappeared into the flames back to Harry’s.

He’d never hidden anything from his mother. There was no point. He knew she’d ask him a lot of questions when he got home.

The three of them took floo powder to the Burrow, and after hellos, Charlie, Ron and Ginny went to play against Harry, George and Oliver.

Charlie came home more often, having saved up to buy a little house in Romania near the dragon reserve. He had a floo put in, and obtained all the necessary permissions for intercontinental floo travel. He realized now how important family was to his mother, and to him.

Hermione stayed in the kitchen with Molly, and they chatted while waiting for Bill and Fleur who were traveling, according to Molly’s clock.

“Ron’s seeing a witch he met at the joke shop,” Molly said, glancing sideways at Hermione.

“That’s nice,” she answered, without a trace of hurt or jealousy in her voice.

Molly looked at her shrewdly. All Molly wanted for all her children (surrogate and otherwise), was for them to be as happily partnered as she was with Arthur. But she never pushed, having learned her lesson with Fleur.

“And you? Are you seeing anyone these days?” she asked. She had heard of Sam from Harry, and wondered.

“I just met someone,” she said.

“Oh?” Molly watched as Hermione’s eyes followed Oliver in the paddock out back.

She blushed, and Molly said, “I see! When did this happen?”

“Last night, which sounds very silly. But we ran into each other in Muggle London, and we went for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron, just one!” she fibbed. “Then he came over to Harry’s, and we all stayed up too late talking, and now here he is.”

Molly nodded. “My boys like him very much, and I do know his parents. They’re good people.”

Bill and Fleur arrived soon, through the fireplace as this was their Sunday with the Weasleys. They usually alternated Sundays between the Weasley and Delacour families. Molly hugged them both, and Fleur had a slight silvery glow to her.

“Bonsoir, ma cherie,” Fleur said to Hermione, holding out a posy of birthday flowers, and a little bag of birthday chocolates.

“Hello, Bill, hello Fleur,” she replied, kissing their cheeks. “Thank you!”

After greeting his mother, Bill put down the bags of groceries and went outside to referee, but not before charming the radio to stay put on an instrumental station. No Celestina Warbeck today.

Molly pursed her lips at him, as he conjured his broom from thin air (something he’d learned as a curse breaker—he had his own in-between space to keep tools, charms, wards, potions and all manner of other things handy. You never knew what you’d need on a job.) Fleur unpacked the brown paper bags, and started to cook. Molly hovered around her like a mother hen, trying to make her sit. Fleur had recently learned she was pregnant with their first child.

“Boy or girl, I don’t care. Just so long as she’s ‘ealthy and ‘appy,” Fleur said, giving away her preference.

She and Hermione preferred cooking with Molly and staying in the house to brooms, and they all talked together, laughing over baby stories about Molly’s children.

Hermione told Fleur about meeting Oliver, and Fleur o-la-la’ed and grinned at her. Hermione liked Fleur a lot, as they’d grown much closer over the Sundays they’d spent together. Hermione appreciated her fierceness when provoked, and her general placidity when left to her own devices. Fleur still doesn’t much care for feeding chickens, but she enjoys her part-time work at Gringott’s to improve her English, and working on her charmwork. 

Before dinner, Hermione magicked the tables together outside, counting through everyone so she could conjure enough chairs, though she didn’t think she would mind Oliver’s lap. She and Fleur had whispered over his muscles, and Molly pretended not to see Hermione gesturing crotchward to indicate his transverse abdominus and inguinal ligament. 

“What is that called?! I’ve only ever seen that on Greek statues!” she had exclaimed, as Fleur giggled and put a hand on her belly. Bill had that, being naturally lean. But she kept that to herself. She gazed out her husband and smiled.

Hermione charmed Arthur’s fairy lights on, and conjured a few large lanterns, so they could see their food, and each other. The lanterns also radiated a nice warmth, and Fleur cast a charm that created a protective bubble around them that would block the wind.

Arthur brought Percy home with him. Arthur had been spending more time with Percy in London, repairing their relationship. They got on much better now, and had a much better understanding of one another. Molly had encouraged this, as their estrangement during the war had caused a real rift in the family. She was so glad that Fred that forgiven his brother before he died. Molly sighed, and then looked toward her clock, everyone pointing toward home. She would never be happy in the same way again, but she   
loved her family so much, and she knew time would ease her aches, but that she would carry her grief with her always.

Molly, Hermione and Fleur magicked the food out, to the set table.

Everyone said hello to everyone else, and Oliver came up behind Hermione, putting his hand on her back.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked.

She smiled and nodded, and they sat at the end corner of the table, with Charlie at the foot, and Percy across from them. Oliver’s cheeks were red from the wind, and she resisted an incredible urge to run her fingers through his windswept hair.

Oliver winked at her and took a sip from his cup.

“It was windy up there today!” he commented nonchalantly. “Ginny is a remarkable chaser! The Harpies are lucky to have her.”

Ginny grinned at him from up the table, and Hermione blushed and looked quickly away, wondering if he was a legillimens. Bill and Fleur took a seat next to them.

Arthur opened their dinner with a few words, as he usually did. He was thankful everyone was together, and hoped they would have dinners like this for years to come.

As they passed the plates around, Harry invited everyone to Christmas at Grimmauld Place.

“And I do mean everyone. I’m giving everyone lots of advance notice, so feel free to bring your girlfriends, boyfriends, second cousins, quidditch coaches! Whoever you want! I’m determined that this year we’ll have a right proper Christmas. No cooking for you, Molly. This is one day you will not cook. We’re going to have people over throughout the day, since everyone has different obligations. There will be all sorts of things to eat: Christmas breakfast, Christmas lunch, dinner, snacks. I don’t know how the food is going to work. Really, it’s whatever Kreacher’s little heart desires, and he assures me no one will be hungry. I’m going to put up at least three trees, and we’ll have a bonfire on the roof with cider and hot chocolate. I’ve even got Hagrid to agree to bring me some fire dwelling salamanders.”

“You’re getting carried away, dear,” Molly said, patting his hand.

“Maybe,” Harry said, grinning at her. “Maybe. But wait till you see the Christmas Crackers I ordered!”

Harry would not be dissuaded. He told them about the train set he’d found in the back of Regulus’s closet that he’d decided to put beneath one of the trees, and Harry wanted real live fairies like he remembered in the Hogwarts trees. The house was really coming along beautifully. Hermione couldn’t wait to see it all put together. She hoped she and Oliver would still be friends by Christmas.

Well. More than friends.

She wondered if Oliver would come if she invited him to Christmas snacks, that was small enough, right? He squeezed her hand under the table, as if in answer.


	14. Chapter 14

Oliver kissed Hermione goodbye in front of Harry and Ron when he flooed home from the Burrow.

“Don’t forget, we’re going to a movie this week,” he reminded her.

“Yes, I promised,” she said, smiling. “I’ll get all my reading and essays done. Just send me an owl.”

“I’ll send one tomorrow. See you soon,” Oliver smiled, and winked at her, and then disappeared into the flames.

She ignored Ron’s inquiring eyebrows, and flooed to Grimmauld Place. She went upstairs and put on a CD. She felt so happy.

“When I say I’m in love, you best believe I’m in love, L-U-V,” David Johansen told her, before the New York Dolls launched into “Looking for A Kiss.”

Harry smiled as he went up to his room. He could always tell how Hermione was feeling by the music coming from her room. She must be in a good mood.

When it ended, she turned off her boom box, and lay back on her bed. She tried one of the calming breathing exercises the therapist showed her.

“Ok, brain,” she said out loud. “No what-ifs. You’re not going to spoil this for me.”

An owl came the next day, as promised. Oliver asked to take her to dinner, and they could look at the Muggle paper to see what was playing. Neither of them had a cell phone, and Harry didn’t have a landline, so she couldn’t call Moviefone to get playing times.

She gave the owl a treat, and asked it to wait while she scribbled a reply.

He came to pick her up on Wednesday night, and she took him to get Oliver’s first hamburger.

“I’m going to ease you in with a hamburger, ok?” she said.

“Sure,” he said, and they walked to a nearby restaurant.

“Will you eat onions?” she asked.

“Will you kiss me after?” he teased her.

“I’m fairly certain I will,” she answered, blushing.

“Then yes.”

“Ok. Let me order for you,” she said, wanting his first hamburger to be perfect. Oliver watched her, as she thought about how much she loved “burgers and fries. With a milkshake. Yes. Yum.”

He kept his face carefully composed. He didn’t want to tell her about the legilimency yet. It tended to make people more shy, or guarded. And he didn’t want her to be guarded. Not yet. He was enjoying her feelings, though she did tend to wear them on her sleeve. Her face was so expressive.

Oliver shook his head a little to keep from going goo-goo eyed; though if he was honest, he was already very smitten.

“Have you ever had a pop?” she asked

Oliver furrowed his brow.

“I better order us a Coke, too,” she said. “I like fountain sodas best because they tend to be a little syrupy. It’s slightly embarrassing how much I like sugary things, considering I was raised by dentists.”

“What’s…”

She laughed and put her hand on his arm. “Give me a second, and I’ll tell you.”

She ordered them cheeseburgers, and a large soda and a water, just in case.

She sat with him in a booth and wordlessly cast muffliato, which she had never really approved of, but was beginning to see its charms.

“My parents are dentists, which means they fix muggle teeth filling cavities, which are little holes in your teeth, or setting braces to straighten them, and things like that. It can be a little gross, because it’s people’s mouths, but it’s also very interesting, all the things we can do without magic.”

He nodded, and took a sip of Coke.

“Oh, this is nice,” he said.

“Just be careful because it will make you burp,” she said.

He nodded. “Thanks for the warning.”

Their food was ready soon after, and Oliver declared he liked his burger with the onion. Hermione had also ordered a big basket of fries, and got them mayo, and ketchup for dipping, not knowing what he preferred. He tried both, and then mixed them together on his basket paper.

When they were done eating, he asked, “What is a milkshake?”

“Oh! It’s really good. It’s ice cream with milk, basically, so you can drink it.”

“Should I try one?”

“I think they’re delicious,” she said, wondering if she should have one. She had never really thought about how much she ate in front of Harry or Ron. But she had just eaten a giant burger and fries, would he care? Did it matter? She groaned, inwardly. Too many muggle fashion magazines…

“I think we should get a few, like a potions experiment,” he said. “Will you have some?”

“Ok,” she smiled.

Oliver went to order the shakes, and Hermione watched him chat with the counter guy. Oliver was easy to laugh, and seemed to make friends with everyone.

He ordered them to-go, and asked if she wanted to go back to the house to share, instead of going to a movie. She agreed, and Oliver charmed them to keep from melting.

They walked slowly home.

“Good evening,” Oliver said to Walberga, with a little nod. Hermione grinned at her, and they took the stairs to the attic so they could sit on the roof. Because of the wards, you couldn’t apparate directly onto the roof. The garden was empty, and Hermione charmed the door shut, an “Occupied” sign in pretty cursive appeared on the other side of the door.

They sat under Dywenen’s tree, and Hermione conjured some big paper lanterns so they could see.

“Is this ok?” she asked.

“Brilliant,” he said, handing her the chocolate shake.

“I got too many,” Oliver said. “They had more, but I figured we could try more next time.”

She smiled at “next time” and asked what he got.

“Chocolate, strawberry, and mint chocolate chip, because the girl making them said that was her favorite.”

While they tried all the shakes, they asked and answered all the usual getting to-know-you questions: what’s your favorite color, what’s your wand made of, how many siblings do you have, what’s your favorite potion?

“What’s the weirdest thing about you?” Oliver asked.

“Weirdest…” she mused. “I know what weird means, but honestly, I think I’m pretty ordinary.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said.

“No, really. I know I’m clever. That’s not weird, or even all that special. I know a lot of clever people. I’m a Gryffindor. We’re all loyal and brave and keen on adventure. What about you? What’s weird?”

“I actually don’t mind the way orange juice tastes after you brush your teeth,” he said.

She laughed and shivered. “Ooo. That is weird. In that case…. I like squeezing bubotubers. It’s really satisfying when you hear the pop.”

Oliver stuck his tongue out and made a face. She laughed, and playfully swatted at him.

“Do you know what bubble wrap is?”

Oliver shook his head.

“Well, it’s almost as good as bubotubers. I’ll show you sometime.”

Before he flooed home, he asked when she’d like to hang out on his next day off.

“You can say no, if you’re busy. I’ve got quidditch starting up soon, and I know you’re studying, but I want to be respectful of your time,” he said. “And, I don’t want you to feel like I’m keeping you guessing, or stringing you along.”

“I really appreciate that,” she said, with a smile. “I’ll make time. Send me an owl?”

“I will.”

He kissed her goodnight, and Hermione went up to her room and played The Smiths “Nowhere Fast." The words didn’t match her mood, but the music did. It made no sense, just like her emotions, really—she knew he was attractive and kind. Attraction was explainable—he was Ewan McGregor levels of cute. Plus, incredibly fit. She had looked up the memorable muscles of Oliver's anatomy in a textbook in the library. She now knew that she appreciated his trapezius and deltoid muscles. His vastus laterales and vastus mediales, and the less she thought about the lateral heads of his gastrocnemius muscles, the better.

But what was the rest of it? She’d seen him twice, and all she wanted to do was see him again. _Infatuated._ She was infatuated.

She giggled and tried to settle down listening to “Well, I Wonder” so she could read her Arithmancy text. But she didn’t want to think about Arithmancy. She just wanted to think about the way Oliver’s eyes shined, and how he’d quirk up the corners of his mouth into a little smile before he talked, and about the way he leaned back while they talked at the restaurant, rubbing his closely shaved scalp with his fingers.

And he listened. He liked arithmancy; and they had discussed pure mathematics, and how it was similar to some Arithmancy scholarly suppositions. It was so interesting.

As the song played, she did wonder, if Oliver kept her in mind. She groaned.

“Brain, this is obscene,” she admonished. “It’s time to study.”

She willed herself into concentration, and only twice found herself thinking about the way he’d licked the ketchup off his lips, instead of thinking about her lesson.

Oliver meant it when he said he wanted to be good to her, and that required effort on his part; so, he was definitely more mindful than he had ever been in the past. He endured good natured ribbing from his teammates, when he would only play wingman to their pursuits in the pub. Hermione, and flying, occupied a lot of his mind; he trained hard, and kept out of trouble. If they couldn’t see each other for a couple of weeks because of quidditch or her NEWTs study schedule, Oliver sent her a note with a suggestion for their next movie, or the name of the bands that his muggleborn teammates were listening to and he thought she would like: Garbage, Tricky, and Portishead.

Hermione went to see Sam, and went down the Trip Hop rabbit hole. Sam also introduced her to Bjork (Sam started her with Homogenic, pointing out that Alexander McQueen directed one of the music videos for “Alarm Call”).


	15. Chapter 15

The sun was just rising as Hermione met Harry in the kitchen. He had asked Hermione to go with him to Godric’s Hollow.

It was Halloween.

He carried his invisibility cloak, and Hermione conjured a wreath of marigolds and mums for his parents’ graves. She had planted them in a greenhouse with Neville’s help.

Harry had wanted to go early because he didn’t want to be seen, just in case a Daily Prophet photographer was hiding somewhere. Harry hadn’t gone much of anywhere since May, and the Daily Prophet had contacted him about writing a story on this “momentous anniversary.” Harry had declined, but knew it would follow him around for the rest of his life. He wasn’t ready to talk about it now, not with the newspaper.

Harry had asked if they could go, just the two of them, saying that he wanted her support since she was with him the first time he’d been home. She had agreed. Some things you just couldn’t share—she still hadn’t told Oliver about Bellatrix. She didn’t even know how to begin, though he had seen the thin thread of a scar on her neck. He hadn’t asked her about it.

They apparated, and they spent a few minutes in the graveyard, after she laid her wreath. Then she walked slowly to the house, and looked at the new graffiti. She gave Harry a minute, knowing he probably wanted one. She felt his forehead on her shoulder; she felt his silent sobs.

“It’s over,” she whispered, leaning her head toward him. “It’s okay. It’s over and we’re alive and safe and happy.”

She closed her eyes, and shed a few silent tears for her friend, for herself. She felt Harry’s hand on hers, and they apparated back to Grimmauld Place. They hugged for a minute.

“Thanks for going,” Harry said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Of course,” Hermione answered, conjuring him a tissue. “Anything you need. Absolutely anything.”

She squeezed his hand, and he went back to bed, and she went to spend her hour with Neville in the greenhouses.

When she got back, Harry was eating breakfast with Ron like it was any other day. She smiled at them, and sat down and ate a piece of toast, and drank some orange juice, while Kreacher made her an egg.

Harry went to the Burrow, and Ron went to the shop, and Hermione waited for Oliver to floo over.

The quidditch season was starting soon. She planned to match her study schedule to Oliver’s quidditch practice days for as long as it worked. She was enjoying her studies so far, but was no closer to knowing what she wanted to do with herself.

When he arrived, they went to hang out on the roof, where Hermione conjured her blue flames in a big bowl that Harry kept on the roof for this purpose. Oliver cast a charm to block the wind. They were just chatting, looking up at clouds, guessing at shapes.

After a while, Oliver said, “Tell me about your time at Hogwarts.”

She sighed, and turned over onto her belly to look him in the eye.

“I arrived a bossy know-it-all—armor to protect against the unknown, as I didn’t know what I was getting myself into,” she said.

She didn’t tell him that the therapist suggested this was a trauma response. She still hadn’t told him about half of all she had been through. She would wait. It had been rather ridiculous, and almost unbelievable in retrospect.

“I had had Muggle friends before I left, and I got a few letters from them by owl post, but those friendships died out pretty quickly—eleven-year-olds aren’t the best correspondents. I was nervous about not knowing anything about the magical world. When Professor McGonagall came and told me and my parents about the wizarding world, it was intimidating. So, I read everything I could get my hands on. And I did spend a lot of time in the library—don’t laugh.”

She looked at Oliver through narrowed eyes.

“I’d never laugh _at_ you,” he reassured her, with a smile. “Go on.”

“I liked the library because I could read up on everything. I felt at a disadvantage, because I was Muggleborn. Plus, I didn’t know anyone. Books are easier than people. You just open a book and it shares its secrets,” she smiled. “My classmates ignored me, or thought I was insufferable, because I outshone them in class, or if you were a girl in my year, you didn’t like me because I was friends with boys, especially Mr. Popular himself.”

She laughed, thinking back on how much Harry had always hated the attention.

”My worst year was your last one,” she said frankly.

Oliver remembered her at a common room table behind a pile of books. It was his NEWT year, and he’d also had his share of late nights.

“I wish I’d been kinder to you. I remember some nights you looked like you’d blow apart if a breeze blew by. But I was just an idiot, worried about quidditch and my NEWTs.”

Hermione remembered him smiling at her a few times, and waking her up, and sending her off to bed. She said he had been kind.

“I was using a time turner to take every subject offered at Hogwarts. I had been so worried that I would make a wrong choice, take the wrong class. So, I took them all. I told Harry and Ron that it would be so interesting, but really, I had to think that. I no one to talk to about it. My parents are muggles, and said that whatever I chose to study, they hoped I would enjoy it. I love them dearly, but in this instance, they were of utterly no use.

“That was the year Harry and Ron didn’t speak to me for months over a broom and my cat,” she said with a sigh.

Oliver winced, remembering his behavior regarding the broom.

“You tell me about Hogwarts,” she said, a little of her old bossiness shining through.

“Now I’m sort of embarrassed to say that I loved it,” Oliver said with a sheepish grin. “I’d been waiting to go my whole life to go. My mother was in Hufflepuff and my father was in Ravenclaw, so it was really exciting when the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor. I made fast friends with every boy in my year, well, except for Percy. Percy was so different from his brothers. We didn’t make friends until recently.

I always tried out for quidditch, but didn’t make it until Charlie and some of the other older students left. But Charlie encouraged me every year, and took me under his wing. I loved Charlie—he was always kind to me, and encouraged me to figure out what I was good at, and not just quidditch. I lived to fly, though. When Fred and George came to school, we got on instantly.”

He sighed.

It was impossible to talk about Hogwarts without being a little sad, too. Hermione put her hand on his arm to comfort him.

“You wanna listen to music and practice French kissing?” she asked, cheekily.

“That’d be brilliant,” he said, surprised, but delighted.

She smiled, sat up and shuffled through her CD notebook and found a mix Sam had helpfully titled “For Making Out.” He had given it to her after he asked if she wanted to be set up with a younger brother of one of his friends, and she had blushed and said she’d just started seeing someone.

She put it into her boombox, and smiled widely at him before resuming her spot on the grass next to him. They kissed while the Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Just Like Honey” opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delicious: [Just Like Honey](https://youtu.be/7EgB__YratE)


	16. Chapter 16

One late November Sunday, Hermione was chatting with Fleur while they a shepherd’s pie was in the oven. Molly and Fleur had noticed how much happier she was, compared to the summer months.

And she is. After a year of incredible hardship, and a lot of sorrow and suffering, everything was looking up. Her studies were coming along nicely, and she was excited about the future, whatever it held.

“I think this is a nice boy for you,” Fleur said, smiling at Hermione.

Fleur loved love, and she loved Hermione. She hoped she would be as happy as she was with Bill. She wanted that for everyone, just like Molly did.

“I think he is nice for me, as nice as Victor was,” Hermione said. “Nicer, maybe.”

Fleur smiled. “Have you heard from Viktor? I wrote him about the baby.”

“No, I haven’t heard from him since your wedding. I wonder why. I wrote him when I got back to London.”

“Well, I will tell him you said hello, and that you are doing so well,” Fleur said. “You looked so lovely at the wedding. I thought you looked so beautiful that night at the Yule Ball, too. I think everyone was surprised, no?”

“Yes, especially the girls in my year. I got ready for the ball in the bathroom on the second floor rather than in our tower because I didn’t want to listen to Parvati and Lavender talk in stage whispers: Did she brew a love potion? Must have, All-Brains-And-No-Beauty wouldn’t have been asked otherwise. Do you think she used the imperious curse?”

Fleur huffed. “That is too mean!”

“Moaning Myrtle, the ghost in the girl’s bathroom said I could come cry in her stall when the ball was over, if it went badly,” Hermione laughed. “I almost went down there after fighting with Ron. He was so mad I went with Viktor.”

“Well,” Fleur said, “Ron has always been a little…what’s the word? Jealous? No...insecure.”

Hermione nodded, Ron had always been something.

“And you look good, now,” Fleur said. “I like your sweater, and your shoes!”

Hermione looked pleased with herself. “I found the sweater at a consignment store. It’s actually a very nice cashmere sweater. Half price, but still too expensive.”

“Well, nice things cost money, it’s true,” Fleur nodded. “We should go thrifting in France one of these weekends. I think we would have fun.”

“Yes, please,” Hermione said. “I’m matching my schedule to Oliver’s quidditch practices, so my day’s off vary. But I can send you an owl.”

“Yes, sooner rather than later. My ankles swell,” Fleur pouted, looking down at her legs. “If you floo to the cottage, we can floo to my parents’ home.”

“That would be great.”

Fleur flicked her wand, and the knife on the counter came to life, chopping lettuce to make a salad. Fleur wanted crunchy things. Bill came in to check on her, and make sure the wireless was not playing anything that would induce a fight. Bill kissed her hands, and Hermione wondered how Ron could be so different from his brothers.

“Bill, I want fried chicken,” she said with a sigh. “And a biscuit.”

Bill laughed and said, “Whatever you say, my love.” He apparated away.

Fleur started to cry, and Hermione asked if she was ok.

“Yes, he just didn’t kiss me goodbye,” she conjured a tissue. “It’s the ‘ormones, I think? I feel very silly, I cry for any reason.”

Hermione smiled.

“And I’m so hungry—all the time! Never before had I eaten fried chicken,” Fleur said. “But there’s a stand near the Alley. I followed my nose through the Leaky Cauldron and out onto the street. I’d never wanted to eat anything more in all my life. Being pregnant is so very strange.”

After a few minutes, Bill popped back with a little snack box.

“Merci, mon amour,” she said, opening her little box and licking her lips. Fleur summoned some honey to put on her biscuit.

“Were you crying? Oh! I didn’t kiss you,” Bill said. He gave her three little kisses on her jaw. “ _Je suis desole, mon amour_.”

And then he kissed her forehead. “ _Mon loup, mon sauvage,_ ” she whispered, tracing his jaw with her fingertips.

Bill looked like he could eat her, and growled a kiss near her ear. Fleur looked much happier, almost giddy. Bill went back to the shed to be with Charlie and their father, and Fleur sighed, munching on her chicken drumstick.

She washed her hands, and went to lie on the couch, while Hermione and Molly spent an hour transfiguring the Sunday Daily Prophet into paper hats of various shapes, and levels of adornment. When Fleur woke up from her nap, she made herself a hat with rosettes and netting. It really was beautiful.

They wore their creations to dinner, and passed out the rest to be worn, much to everyone’s amusement.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Party.

On Christmas Eve at sunset, Hermione met Harry on the roof. They had planned to go to Godric’s Hollow, just as they had the year before.

“I planted these for you,” Harry said, pointing to a bush of Christmas roses, and handed her a little box. “I’ll never be able to thank you, Hermione…” his voice trailed off, and they hugged.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” she said, pulling his gift from her pocket.

He opened it to find a framed and repaired photo of him as a baby, zooming around on a broom, his father’s feet chasing him through the photo, while his mother’s hands dived towards a falling vase, which broke into pieces. She’d open her gift and found a thin silver chain, with a hellebore charm. They had no words.

They took each other’s hands and apparated to Godric’s Hollow. Once again, he was under the invisibility cloak, and she laid a wreath of Christmas roses on his parents’ graves. He held her hand for a few moments, and they apparated home.

The next morning, Harry woke Hermione up by knocking loudly on her door. “Oy! Presents!” he yelled, like Ron used to do to him in school. He smiled at her, when she opened the door yawning in her robe and slippers. They went into the sitting room where one of the trees was loaded with beautifully wrapped packages. Ron joined them, rubbing his eyes. Harry had woken him up first. They made guesses about their packages. They’d all gotten Christmas cake and a new Weasley sweater. Hers was red, and Harry’s was green, and Ron’s was Chudley Cannons orange.

“Yes!” Ron exclaimed. “Not maroon!”

Hermione wasn’t sure that the violent orange was an improvement. But Ron was happy. They all put on their sweaters, which were lovely and warm.

“Thanks for the new chess set,” Harry said to Ron. He’d lost a piece in the Forest of Dean, so his pieces refused to play for him no matter what he had tried to substitute.

Hermione laughed, as she and Ron opened their gifts from each other. They’d both given each other a box of Chocolate Frogs (though Hermione’s gift had included a note, and an Agrippa card, which she had found, and knew he’d still not collected).

Her parents had sent her a long letter, a new pair of the Doc Marten leather Mary Janes she liked so much, several photos and a handmade coupon for a new cat. On the back was a note that they would accompany her to Diagon Alley to pay for the new addition to the family. The Grangers loved their trips to Diagon Alley. Hermione had plans to take them to Hogsmeade during their vacation, having received special charms and enchantments from the Ministry to enable them to see the village properly. Molly and Arthur had already invited them to the Burrow. They would arrive later that morning at Heathrow.

Sam had sent her a copy of The Clash’s London Calling, and Beth had sent her some supplied for her collage making, including an X-Acto knife and extra blades. George had sent her nice quill set, and some stationary with a note that said he remembered she’d said she wished she’d kept in better touch with her friends, and that he hoped this would help. He also included a card for Eeylop’s Owl Emporium, the note told her to ask for Stan Shuntpike. (Stan now enjoyed a very quiet life, working in Diagon Alley.) Bill and Fleur had sent her a beautiful crystal box, _“For your sentimental things,”_ Fleur had written knowingly on the card. Hermione had a cracker box under her bed that already contained a certain movie ticket, a packet of old letters from Victor Krum, and other knick knacks. Percy had given her a book she’d been wanting, and Charlie sent her a piece of Romanian wool embroidery, which she hung on her wall immediately. Ginny had sent her some tools to clean her roller skate bearings, and a new set of wheels. Neville had sent her a lovely silk scarf, with a note that said it had belonged to his mother, and that he hoped she knew how much he appreciated her help in every single potions lesson. The card would go in the crystal box, too, Hermione thought. Luna had sent her a butterbeer cap necklace. Hermione put that on, and tied her hair up with the scarf.

She’d saved Oliver’s envelope for last. He’d sent her three tickets to the New Year’s Eve Puddlemere United game. She thought momentarily about inviting her parents, but decided to invite Harry and Neville instead.

They collected their Christmas cakes, and apparated down to the kitchen.

“No snacks before breakfast, Master Harry,” Winky said appearing in the kitchen, taking the cakes from them with a swish of her long-fingered hands. Harry had written to the headmistress to ask for Winky’s help with the Christmas preparations. They both wished her a happy Christmas, and she smiled at them. Winky was doing much better these days, under Professor Slughorn’s care. They had taken a real shine to each other, and Winky had finally stopped mourning the Crouches. Kreacher appeared with their coffee, several slices of warm cinnamon sugar toast, and a heap of bacon.

That day, Grimmauld Place was full of chatter and music and magic. Harry had enchanted his Wizarding Wireless to play throughout the house (the Weird Sisters had declined his request to play his party, which was all for the best, as Molly would’ve died from the expense; but they had accepted his invitation to attend). At one point, he caught Walberga Black humming along to Celestina Warbeck and he winked at her. Harry had sent everyone he’d ever had any kind feeling towards an invitation, and they all came by at some point. The house was filled with countless people throughout the day. Andromeda Tonks came early with little Teddy, and Andromeda had said hello to her estranged aunt’s portrait and Teddy smiled toothlessly at Walberga, grabbing at the air with his hands and cooing at her. Walberga may or may not have waved back.

Harry showed his godson the trains, which Hermione enchanted to run around a track that spiraled up, around and into the tree branches. While the baby crawled around, or pulled himself up onto his little feet, Winky charmed everything to stay exactly in its place, so the baby wouldn’t be injured by anything. All of the Hogwarts professors dropped by before or after their traditional Christmas lunch. Hagrid came via floo as the sun was setting, and went up to man the magical bonfire. He’d brought several salamanders, as promised.

Neville came back that evening by himself, having brought his grandmother to see Harry earlier in the day.

“Neville! Happy Christmas, and thank you for the gift,” Hermione said, patting her hair.

“Thank you for yours,” he said, smoothing the sweater vest she had made him. It looked really nice on. She’d gotten his size just right.

“I have another present for you,” she said, telling him about Oliver’s tickets. “Will you come?”

“Of course! That would be brilliant,” he said, and hugged her.

“I think your friends are here, Hermione,” Harry said, peering out the window.

Hermione went out to the street to meet their cab. She wordlessly charmed her friends into not noticing anything magical before she tapped her wand to let them into the house. She didn’t know if this was exactly fair, still feeling guilty about her parents. But she wanted them to come. She introduced them to Neville, and to her parents, and the elder Weasleys. Harry came and said hello, bringing them hot cocoa, since they couldn’t go up to the roof—not with a magical bonfire burning away and Hagrid manning the flames—and their Christmas crackers had appeared very ordinary. They stayed a while, Sam and Hermione’s father getting along famously.

Just for Christmas Day, all you had to do was hold the invitation, and concentrate on genuinely wishing to see Harry, and you’d appear on the stoop to Grimmauld Place. Hermione had asked the Ministry to help make this happen for Harry, as the Black family’s incredible desire for secrecy made it practically impossible to come otherwise. It had taken a lot of work, but Minister Shacklebolt had cleared several people to make it happen. After a few more guests arrived, there was a tentative knock on the door, and there stood Draco Malfoy.

“Hello, Potter,” he said, as Harry grabbed him into a bear hug.

“Happy Christmas, Malfoy!” They pulled a Christmas Cracker together, releasing several gold, green, and red sparks, and found a holly wreathed wizard’s hat, Gobstones, Exploding Snap cards, and several Pepper Imps, and a sachet of enchanted snow that would sprinkle the opener’s head with soft snow flakes for 15 minutes. Draco put the hat on Harry’s head, and opened the snow charm. They each ate a pepper imp, and steamed at the ears, laughing. Harry magicked the rest of the items into Draco’s coat pockets, before he took it off, and it disappeared into an upstairs bedroom.

“I’m so glad to see you here,” Harry told Draco, squeezing his shoulders with both hands.

“I’m glad to be invited,” Draco said softly.

“Absolutely any time,” Harry said, looking Draco in the eye so he would know he meant it. Harry had reached out to Draco not long after the weed-induced conversation. Their correspondence had been a little stilted, but Harry was persistent. Draco would come by at least once a month for the rest of his life. He and Harry became very good friends at last. They had a lot to talk about.

Walberga who was already feeling sentimental from the scene, was positively teary-eyed when someone broke out into a chorus of “God rest ye Merry Hippogryphes.” She shut her own curtains and sobbed softly behind them, but looked very composed when she opened them again. The crowd ebbed and flowed, and Harry greeted everyone, snacking on the hors d'oeuvres being passed around, each better than the last. Between knocks, he tried to mingle as best he could, apparating all over the house. The Weasleys were all there, and Percy even brought his new girlfriend Audrey. She was very nice, and seemed bubbly even. George had invited Angelina, and Charlie had brought two of his dragon tamer friends.

Oliver arrived as it was getting dark.

“You said quidditch coaches,” Oliver reminded Harry as he introduced him to his guest.

“Nice to meet you, Hector Castille.” the new arrival said, shaking Harry’s hand. “Head coach for Puddlemere United.”

“Yes, come in! So glad you came!” said Harry, offering him a cracker.

Oliver took off his pea coat, and Puddlemere United scarf, which disappeared from his hands. He wore a white wool Aran sweater that his mother had knitted, 501 Levis that he’d cuffed up and well-loved brown brogue boots. He caught Hermione’s eye and winked at her. She was in the living room with her parents, the elder Weasleys, and Bill and Fleur. Winky had popped up every once and a while to check that Fleur had all she wanted, and had just brought her a little buche de Noelle, after Fleur had expressed a passing wish out loud for the cake. Fleur laughed and announced she wished to be pregnant here every Christmas! Bill turned a bright red, as Oliver walked in with his coach. Fleur happily ate her cake, and waved her fork in greeting. Hermione smiled and gestured toward the seats next to her, and Oliver sat down.

“Mum, Dad, this is Oliver.”

“Michael Granger,” her dad said, offering a handshake.

“Sharon Granger,” her mother said, with a smile. She could see why her daughter had been so decidedly happy when she met them at the airport. Oliver made small talk while he took in her Weasley sweater, and black mini skirt, opaque gold tights, and her new black Doc Marten mary janes.

Soon Harry came and invited them all to the roof for cider and hot chocolate. Oliver and Hermione followed him up, and went to talk to Luna and her father, who were by the fire. After a while, she and Oliver found themselves alone on a bench near the fire.

“Thanks for the tickets,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you play.”

“I might not play much, but, you never know.” He smiled at her.

“I have something for you, too,” she said, reaching into her pocket for a paper CD sleeve. She hadn’t sent it, just in case he didn’t get her anything. He opened it to find a CD and a paper ticket.

“Glastonbury Festival,” he read out loud. “What’s this?”

“A muggle music festival. I got Harry and Ginny a ticket, too. I hope it won’t interfere with quidditch. It’s over three days, and you camp and there are so many bands playing. Like, 300 shows in a day. I burned you a CD, too. Here,” she said, tapping the disc with her wand, and he suddenly heard music in his ears.

“Oh wow!” he said, listening for a few seconds more. She beamed at him, and tapped it again so the music stopped. She explained that if you tapped in the center of the CD it played or stopped. Tap the left of the disc and it replayed a song, and the right side skipped a song.

“What a witch you are,” Oliver said admiringly.

“A lot of the bands I like are on here. They’ll all be at Glastonbury. Hole, Suzanne Vega, Beth Orton, Billy Bragg, Travis, Elliott Smith. Even the Weird Sisters will be there!”

“So, this is in the summer?” he asked, looking closely at the ticket. He was touched that she’d invited him to something so far in advance. He caught a memory of her buying the tickets back in October intending to invite Harry, and Ginny. She hadn’t known who the fourth one would be for, but she had hoped it would be him. Oliver stifled a grin, and watched her eyes reflecting the firelight. He asked how she charmed the CD, and she told him about a few charms that Professor Flitwick had helped her combine. She was pretty proud of that. It had been part of a study project during her first term.

“We grow up with these Muggle things, and then they won’t work for us later. But I still live between these two worlds, you know?”

Oliver nodded. “I’ll be there rain or shine,” he promised.

* * *

Oliver might have been a seer in that moment instead of a legillimens. Glastonbury 1999 was prepared for rain, and included a suspiciously magical moment when he held a sweaty Hermione at the foot of the stage, watching Travis play “Why Does It Always Rain On Me?”

“I wrote this song in Israel, and it was supposed to be really really sunny, and it just pished rain the entire time I was there. And I hope, I hope to God that this doesn’t make the heavens open, but don’t hold it against us if it does, ok?” lead singer Fran Healey said, while introducing the song.

Just as the song started, it began to rain, and stopped just as it ended. The crowd swayed together, singing every word.

* * *

Oliver and Hermione went back downstairs, and they said hello to more people, and ate snacks and soon found themselves under a mistletoe sprig.

“What are nargles?” Oliver asked her.

“How do you know about nargles?” she asked, with a laugh, and narrowed her eyes. He pointed a finger in Luna’s direction. Hermione looked over, giggled and kissed his cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Oliver.”

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” and he leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth. They suddenly fell backward into space and appeared in the pantry, where they made out, her cold fingers reaching up underneath his sweater and undershirt, tracing the transverse abdominal muscles she liked so much. He kept his hands respectfully above her clothes, but bit her lips and neck as he pulled her tightly into him. He kissed her breathless, and after ten minutes they straightened their clothes and Hermione vanished her lipstick from Oliver’s skin, and he untied the scarf from her hair, and tied around her neck.

“Sorry. I got a little carried away,” he said, knowing full well that she had liked it. They made their way back to the sitting room, where Oliver’s quidditch coach was talking to Hermione’s parents about Perth. He had traveled to Australia while recruiting, and loved it there. Hermione’s parents were talking about taking a train across the country for their next vacation. They held hands, while Hermione beamed and chatted, and Oliver nodded and greeted people he knew. He pulled a Christmas Cracker with Charlie, who had come over with his friends to talk to him, and after a very happy hour, his coach stood up and looked at his watch.

“All right, Wood. Bed time. We’ve got a match next week, and you’ve got training in the morning.”

“We’ll be there,” Harry said excitedly, and Hermione asked Molly if her parents could visit on New Year’s Eve, as she and Harry had been invited to the Puddlemere match. Molly agreed, and turned to fill Hermione’s mother in on the plan. Their coats hovered before them, ready to be put on, and Oliver kissed Hermione’s cheek.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and squeezed her hand.

Oliver and his coach stepped out the door and found themselves in the Leaky Cauldron. Hector teased Oliver good-naturedly, and thanked him for inviting him before flooing home. Oliver grinned at Tom, and wished him a very happy Christmas, before flooing home to do his hundred sit-ups and push-ups before bed. Hermione and her parents were up early the next morning to go to Diagon Alley, and Harry had not gone to bed at all, instead staying up all night with Hagrid, Seamus, Dean, Ron and Draco who he was now showing to guest rooms while wearing a witch’s hat with a stuffed vulture atop it. He leaned over the bannister and doffed his hat to Hermione as she waved up at him, Hagrid, and the boys.

* * *

Hermione enjoyed her time with her parents that week. She’d gone to Eeylop’s and talked to Stan while picking out an owl for herself. Stan had told her George had already taken care of payment. She found a Little Owl she liked, and named her Athena, for its genus.

Azkaban had hard on Stan. Upon his release, he chose to find work in Diagon Alley, rather than return to the loud, clanging magic of the Knight Bus. The haunted look would slowly fade from his eyes, and he would soon meet a mousy little witch who worked in a paper shop further down the alley. She liked him for exactly who he was, and they would raise their boisterous sons together in Appleby, having decided to move and start their own sundry shop. Stan would be ok.

They spent a few days wandering around London, and a couple days in Hogsmeade. Her parents loved Hogsmeade, and they all stayed at the Three Broomsticks. She received special permission from Professor McGonagall, and had taken her parents for a tour of Hogwarts. Her parents finally got to meet Minerva, and they loved her as much as they had loved her letters.

One night, while they enjoyed a butterbeer, Michael Granger turned to his daughter. “So. Oliver.”

She turned bright red. “Yes?”

“Your mother has brought it my attention that in your letters you’ve not said whether you’re dating Oliver,” he said. “Just that you ‘go out’ with him.”

“Oh. Well. We haven’t really called it anything. But he’s the only person I…go out with,” she said. “And I think I’m the only person he goes out with.”

“Well, I would feel more comfortable if I could have a little chat with him, man-to-man,” he said. “Oh dad! Don’t be old-fashioned!”

“I’m just saying. Maybe he needs to be reminded that you have a strong, menacing father,” he said. “A father that would happily fly an entire day to place a swift kick…”

“Stop teasing her, sweetheart,” her mother said. “Dearest, you know we love you. We just want you to be happy. And…careful.”

Hermione put her head in her hands, terrified her parents were going to talk to her about safe sex in the middle of the pub.

“Mother…” she muttered.

“Well! We know we talked to you about it after your experience with Viktor…Krum? Was that his name? We just wondered if you were on birth control, or needed a little reminder about safe…”

“Mother, please,” she interrupted, putting her hands to her face and pulling down her cheeks in exasperation. “I’m not a baby. I have read about it, we haven’t done anything, and when we do, I promise I’ll be safe. Please let’s not say anymore.”

Hermione sighed. “I need a firewhiskey. Anyone else?”

“I’ll have one,” her father said.

“Me, too,” her mother sighed.

They took a train to Ottery St. Catchpole the next day to visit with the Weasleys.

As Hermione and Harry got ready for the quidditch match, her father pressed a bag of galleons into her hand, since she had decided against another cat, now that she had an owl, and told her to buy herself a jersey, with a wink. Both her parents noticed how she lit up talking about Oliver. They wanted good things for their daughter, their 19-year-old girl, who had navigated between these two worlds for the past eight years, and had already fought off a dark and dangerous evil. “I love you,” she said, squeezing her parents.

“We’ll be home soon.”

“Good journey,” her father said.

“Good journey,” she answered, gave the gesture before she touched the portkey with Harry.

They waited for Neville at the entrance. “I don’t know what’s worse, Harry. Dark magic, or having a safe sex talk with your parents.”

“Try having one with your girlfriend’s parents,” he answered.

“Or your grandmother,” Neville added, as Hermione turned beet red. She hadn’t realized he had walked up behind her. Harry guffawed, and Neville winked at her.

They stopped by the vending carts so that Neville could buy a pair of omniocculars. Harry and Hermione had brought their old pairs with them. Neville had never been to a live quidditch match and was looking forward it so much. Hermione had even written out the lyrics for “Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here,” and sent it to him, so they would be able to sing with the best of them. The match began at 8:30 p.m. Puddlemere United was on fire, taking the lead early, and never giving it up.

Oliver did get to play that night. He had spotted Hermione, Harry and Neville in the family box while he sat on the team bench. His parents had graciously offered to stay home when he explained the situation to them, and he’d weaseled the other ticket out of a teammate who owed him a favor. He nearly missed his first quaffle while watching Hermione cheer for him in a blue team sweatshirt she’d bought on the way to their seats. He caught the quaffle with the tips of his fingers before chucking it to their chaser. Oliver had a good night, and Puddlemere United won their match handily against the Ballycastle Bats shortly before 11 p.m. The announcer told the crowd the quidditch pitch would now be transformed into a dance floor, and a fireworks celebration was planned for midnight.

The three friends went down to the pitch and joined in the dancing and cheering. About 11:45, Oliver found them on the floor. His hair still slightly damp from his very hurried shower and hastily applied drying charm.

“Oliver!” Harry said, seeing him first, his Seeker skills coming useful.

“Congratulations!” Neville shook his hand, and Oliver grinned at him.

“So glad you came, Neville,” Oliver said, feeling strangely relieved Hermione hadn’t invited Ron.

“You were so great!” Hermione squeaked, as Oliver spun her around the dance floor.

They all danced together, and near midnight, Harry played wingman while Neville chatted up a young witch he’d met in the family box. As the fireworks began, Oliver kissed Hermione to ring in the New Year.

“Happy New Year, Oliver,” she said.

“Happy New Year, Hermione,” he answered, half expecting to appear somewhere else in a repeat of their Christmas performance. Instead, they remained firmly on the dance floor, and Hermione looked at him shyly. Oliver bent down to hear her, knowing she wanted to say something.

“Oliver, last night my father asked me if you were my boyfriend,” she said, standing close to him, and speaking into his ear.

“Aren’t I?” he said, looking a little confused.

“Are you?” she gave him a hopeful look. “I mean, we’ve never really said…”

“Oh,” he laughed. “Be mine, Hermione, cause I’m all yours.”

It was corny, but perfect. Hermione kissed him, and Oliver took her hands in his, and the band broke out into a cover of Prince’s “1999” and they grinned goofily at each other. He spun her around, and she held him tight, swaying to the song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Really](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Why_Does_It_Always_Rain_on_Me%3F), it rained.  
> Here's Fran Healy [telling the story](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Os853AL-Ihw&ab_channel=Travis) about how it rained.  
> 


	18. Chapter 18

After the holidays, Hermione resumed her studies, and Oliver resumed his training and quidditch schedule. They made time to see each other often.

One night, while they talked by the fire in Grimmauld Place she asked why he’d never asked her about You-Know-Who.

“Well, a couple of reasons,” he said. “When I first saw you, I didn’t think it would be a very clever or impressive opening line to begin a conversation with one of the loveliest witches I’d ever seen. And second, I can tell you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oliver, how can you tell?”

“Well…”

“Are you a legillimens? I’ve wondered for ages, but thought maybe it was my imagination,” Hermione said.

“I am, and I’m, strictly speaking, not,” he said.

“Meaning…”

“Meaning, my ma is a very gifted legilimens—almost like what muggles think of as a mind-reader. But that’s really rare, and I’m not like that. It drives my father batty. But she’s told me that what people think in their own head is their own business, and that I should never use what’s presented to me to manipulate anyone.

“And I’m not because I’ve never studied legilimency to help it along, either. I can pick up feelings, mostly. Kind of like, I can just tell if you’re nervous, or sad, or happy, or whatever. Every once and a while, if there’s a very strong feeling, I’ll get a memory. But I don’t try.”

Hermione sat, thinking quietly to herself. He could tell she wanted the silence so he waited a bit.

“You think I’m lovely?” she said, finally.

“The loveliest,” he smiled.

They never really talked about it after that. Hermione had decided that if it helped Oliver to understand her better, then that was ok. She didn’t feel like he’d tricked her with it, and he answered honesty when she asked. The way he’d described it, it just made him a little more perceptive. But really, anyone could see how she felt if they’d paid attention (Ron!), she thought to herself.

It was just another thing to discover about each other.

“Oliver, do you want to stay the night?” she asked. He hadn’t stayed over since the first night.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes. Just to sleep if that’s ok. I’m not quite ready for other things, so it’s ok if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll stay, if you want me to. I told you, what we do is up to you. No pressure.”

She smiled and said she wanted him to stay. She slept better when she was near him.

It was the first time he’d been in her room. He looked around while she changed in the bathroom and flossed and brushed her teeth. She had a lot of books in her book case. Her CD collection was growing by the week. He noticed the pictures on her highboy some magical and some not. She had some Polaroids of Sam, and Beth, and her park friends. There was a photo of her, Harry and Ron in what must’ve been their second year. A photo of one of Harry’s quidditch games. Oliver laughed—he didn’t know if she knew that he was in the photo; just a whiz of flying robes. A photo of her in the Gryffindor common room with Crookshanks. These were some of the photos Colin Creevy had given her over the years. She had a couple of albums-full. Colin had been very prolific.

He recognized her parents in a photo from when they were young—her father long-haired, playing the guitar, and her mother standing above him, hands on her hips. There was a photo of the three of them together from their summer visit. And a photo of two people that weren’t familiar at all.

She came out of the bathroom.

“This is a cute photo,” he said, pointing to a photo of her with her parents when she was young—she had lost both her front teeth.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling.

“And who are they?” he asked, pointing to the mystery photo—two people in front of a castle on fire, one holding a torch, the other’s face partially covered by the overlarge collar of her dress.

“Oh,” she smiled and looked sheepish. “That’s Alexander McQueen and Isabella Blow. He’s a fashion designer that I really like. She’s his muse.”

“And he gets his own photo on your dresser?”

She laughed. “Yes. I love him. He’s so imaginative, and his clothes are so powerful.”

Oliver nodded. “We need to get you a better picture of me, though,” he teased.

She looked puzzled, and he pointed himself out. She laughed, and Oliver smiled and went to change and brush his teeth. She had set out a new toothbrush out for him.

The fell asleep, warm and cozy. Spoons in the dark.

The next day, she took Oliver to meet Sam. They got on really well (Oliver told Sam he played lower division football in Northern England) and they chatted about some of the music they both liked—the Beastie Boys newest album, Radiohead’s OK Computer, and Tool, which surprisingly, Hermione liked, too.

“She really will listen to anything,” Sam said, smiling admiringly at her.

They went to lunch with him and Beth, and after, Hermione showed Oliver around to a few of her favorite spots in Muggle London.

She found an arcade with a photo booth where they could take a strip of pictures together for her dresser. They walked around the park, and he watched her skate for a while. It was a crisp day, and there weren’t too many people in the park.

Oliver took advantage of a quiet moment and transfigured his trainers into skates, and wobbled toward her.

“Don’t let me fall,” he joked, holding onto her shoulders. “I’ve got a match next week.”

“I won’t,” she said, smiling. “You’re safe in my hands.”

“Definitely a nice place to be,” he said, and grinned at her.

She blushed.

* * *

Oliver trained hard, and played more and more in his quidditch matches, and Hermione studied for her NEWTs, which were proving well-named. They saw each other on his off days, and she had met his teammates, but not his parents, and they took turns spending the night at each other’s places, though the food was undeniably better at Harry’s, as the boys didn’t have a house elf. Oliver did not tell her that one of the Wood family elves had offered to cook for him during the season, but the boys usually just ate a lot of lean protein, vegetables, quinoa, and the occasional celebratory pizza so it wasn’t worth an elf’s time.

Hermione kept working in the shed with Arthur. They’d gotten ahold of a cellular telephone. It was proving tricky, but the Nokia bar phone would eventually be conquered. Hermione encouraged Arthur to apply for a few wizarding patents.

“The muggle world will only keep changing,” Hermione reasoned. “We have to change with it, or we risk outing ourselves.”

Arthur saw her logic, and knew that the Muggle world was changing very fast around them, and that they wouldn’t be able to owl forever. It was time to get with the times. He applied for his patents.

Once it turned cold, Hermione’s park friends invited her to the roller rink, and she had started to learn how to dance on her skates, which gave her a few bruises and a tender tailbone. But she was having a fun time, learning to fall while casting a weak nonverbal cushioning charm. It couldn’t be too strong, or she’d give herself away. But she wanted to avoid serious injury.

On Valentine’s Day, Oliver flooed into the Grimmauld Place kitchen fireplace after his noon quidditch match. He found Hermione and Draco crying together at the kitchen table.

“Everything all right?” he asked, slightly alarmed, setting down her flowers on the table.

“Yes, we’re ok,” Hermione said, drying her eyes with her sweater sleeve. “We’re going to be just fine.”

Draco had turned away from Oliver, drying his eyes with a handkerchief, and Oliver nodded to Hermione. He trusted she would tell him about it later if she wanted, and went to put his things upstairs.

Draco had come to listen to the match with Harry, who had recently bought the newest home wireless set that would project the matches into 3D as they listened. Hermione was cordial to Draco, but friendship was not yet theirs. 

Harry had spent more and more time trying to reach out to Draco after they’d all gotten high. Harry had once mused over dinner how different things might’ve been, if they had all been able to make friends.

“Sure, I know not everyone can be friends,” Harry said, mostly to convince himself, “but I can’t help but think what a difference we might’ve made on him. Or him on us, in some ways. We certainly wouldn’t have ended up in that third-floor corridor, that’s for certain.”

He shuddered, remembering Fluffy.

Fluffy had retired to a quiet country life after Harry’s first year, and had passed away in Harry’s fifth. Cerebus dogs were never too long for the earthly realm. But Silvanius Kettleburn had loved her well, and had played her music every night, and skritched under all three of her chins.

Before Draco left, he had pulled Hermione aside and told her he wanted to talk to her privately. They walked to the kitchen, and Kreacher made them tea before disappearing into his cubby.

After sitting down at the table, hot tea in his hands, Draco had taken a deep breath, and said: “I want to apologize for what happened to you at Malfoy Manor. I am not excusing myself—I know I should have done more to help you. And I know I should not say ‘but,’ however, Bellatrix, like Voldemort, threatened my father almost every day, and my aunt did not seem to care how it affected my mother—her sister—or me. I became a Death Eater because thought I was doing what I had to, to save my father. To save my family.”

Hermione was listening, and the tears were streaming down her face.

Draco continued, his voice breaking: “I grew up believing a lot of poisonous things, and I did not know better, but I should have tried harder once I had gotten to Hogwarts and was no longer around my parents every day. Ever since that night, I have wished every day that it had been different, that I had been different. I know I hurt you while they were at school, with my words and with my actions. I regret it. I will regret so many things, every day of my life. I am so sorry.”

Hermione knew his words and his tears were genuine, and she took his hands in hers and forgave him. They hugged and cried some more, and Draco asked if they could finally be friends, too.

Hermione agreed, and hugged him, and he left for the manor via the fireplace. Draco immediately felt lighter, less burdened, and was looking forward to rebuilding his family’s legacy. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes as his father.

Hermione had never expected an apology from Draco. She knew Harry had reached out to him, but she didn’t know that the night the boys stayed up so late over Christmas, they had discussed some of these things together, Draco grappling with his burdens of guilt and shame. Harry had suggested to Draco that he also start therapy at St. Mungo’s. Draco would consider it a long time, but wouldn’t go until he was about to become a father, years into the future. He realized then he couldn’t pretend, like his parents were determined to do, that nothing had ever happened. He wanted better for his children. 

Hermione took a few minutes to compose herself after and went upstairs. She found Harry and Oliver talking quietly together. Harry had explained some things, but left it vague, not knowing what she had shared, or wanted to share, with Oliver.

Harry gave her a squeeze, and went to meet Ginny at the Burrow, with some candy and flowers for her and Molly, and Oliver and Hermione stayed behind.

Oliver had planned on taking Hermione to a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner, but instead they sat in the sitting room, talking on the sofa. She leaned into his shoulder, and he put his arm around her.

“Do you remember that quidditch practice in second year? When you had to hold back Fred and George from attacking Draco for calling me a mudblood?” she asked, looking up at him.

He winced. He did remember.

“That was the first time I heard the word ‘mudblood’ said out loud,” she said. “Of course, I’d read about it—don’t laugh.”

“I would never laugh at you,” Oliver said, pretending to be hurt by her presumption.

Hermione kissed the hinge of his jaw, and put her head back on his shoulder.

“Draco had such a contempt in his voice when he said it,” she continued. “And I couldn’t understand how someone who barely knew me could say that. But maybe that was why. Draco didn’t know anything about me, we never really spoke. He made fun of me a lot, but I just figured he didn’t like that I was smarter than he was. But at that moment, it was like, he hated me. And I never realized how much it hurt me, until he was apologizing in the kitchen. I had to build up a wall around me, to protect myself from how others felt about a thing that I couldn’t even help.”

Oliver squeezed her to him.

“What a witch you are,” he said. “So very forgiving.”

“You must be starving,” Hermione said, as his stomach rumbled. “Do you want to try Chinese food?”

“Sure,” he said, and squeezed her hand. All of a sudden, he thought of The La’s “There She Goes” which Hermione had played for him once.

From then on, every time Hermione opened up to him about some of the things that happened to her during her school years. Oliver, would squeeze her tight, and point out one of the character traits he’d seen illustrated in her story: he called her smart, brave, kind-hearted, selfless. He told her she was disciplined, a quick thinker, and a loving and loyal friend.

Oliver saw a lot of good things about her, and helped her recognize these things for herself. Hermione had had a rough time at the hands of her Hogwarts roommates, and occasionally gave into self-doubt and loathing. The way she felt about herself changed a little, with every kind thing Oliver said.

She was growing.

A week later, Hermione started awake in the dark, a scream held tight in her throat.

Oliver felt her pain and her fear, and caught a memory of Bellatrix, screaming at her, cursing her, unhinged and deadly.

Hermione began to shake, and Oliver whispered quietly into the dark, “I’m here.”

Hermione turned into his chest, reaching out to feel his skin under her hands, solid, and real. She matched his steady breathing, calming down a breath at a time. He put his arm around her, and pulled her in close.

“Hush now,” he said, rubbing her back, and kissing her hair.

“It’s so awful,” Hermione whispered, “how she finds me in the dark.”

He held her tighter, and wished he could erase these memories. But instead he held her, as she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. Hermione knew he knew, though she hadn’t said the words out loud: I was cursed and tortured. I was held hostage. I looked Death in eye, and wished to go with him.

“Thank you,” Hermione said quietly.

“For what, darlin?” he asked.

“For helping.” Hermione felt lucky to have gone from that horrible moment, to this wonderful one. She felt safe with Oliver, knowing he didn’t think her weak, or damaged.

“You know, when I was little, and read one too many stories about boggarts, or hinkypunks, I would call my ma, and she would come in and bless me. A soft glow would fall around us—maybe she was just charming me not to fall out of bed. But I felt better. Want me to try it?” Oliver said.

“Would you?” she asked, her voice still small with fear and unshed tears.

“Of course, darlin, if you want me to,” he said.

“Yes, please,” she said, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Oliver put his hand on her heart, and she held her hand over his.

“May the blessing of light be on you, light without and light within.”

Suddenly, a soft, soft, golden glow fell on them, and she felt so warm and cozy. She snuggled onto Oliver’s shoulder, and fell asleep almost immediately. Oliver wondered about the light.

They fell asleep soundly together.

Oliver was making good on his promise every day, learning how to be good to her, and she was learning that she was worthy of this kind of love: one based on mutual interests, respect, trust, understanding, and kindness.

She was so happy; she was healing.

Oliver had gone home a few days after Hermione’s nightmare and sat down with his mother in her little library.

Isobel Wood was knitting her son another sweater, he was so hard on sweaters, this boy who cared about brooms and a brown-haired witch. She had asked him about Hermione after he’d come home that September Sunday.

She had always hoped he would find a nice girl to settle down with. She ached to make booties and tiny layette sets. Well. Soon enough. She knew what he had on his mind. But she was perfectly patient, knowing it was better to let her boy speak.

“Ma, do you remember blessing me when I was little and couldn’t sleep?” Oliver asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Oh, of course, Ollie dear.”

“How does it work?”

“Well, son o’ mine, it works because you’re a wizard,” she said simply.

“And?”

“And…” 

Oliver took in a deep breath, and exhaled, thinking about his brown-eyed, curly-headed witch, who roller skated, and loved music, and movies, and fashion, and was so, so incredibly smart. This witch who could listen to him talk about quidditch for hours without her eyes glazing over.

“I love her,” he said, realizing it as he spoke the words.

His mother smiled at him, “Aye, dear. You do.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” he said.

“Love happens when it happens. It has its own time, and its own wisdom,” she said.

Oliver reached out to squeeze her hand, and then went to help his father outside. He had a lot to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lee and Izzy](https://www.google.com/url?sa=i&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.vanityfair.com%2Fhollywood%2F2016%2F09%2Falexander-mcqueen-isabella-blow-movie&psig=AOvVaw1kbuyYWKn8E2ExvY6Mkdle&ust=1602461107033000&source=images&cd=vfe&ved=0CAIQjRxqFwoTCOCQzvqeq-wCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAI), for Vanity Fair, early in their friendship.  
> 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which there is a leetle sex, and a leetle drug use. nothing excessive either way. more exploratory than PWP.

The next time they saw each other, Oliver had a rare Saturday night off. Hermione invited him to movie night at Sam’s house. They watched “Singles,” an American movie about the Seattle music scene, and dating and relationships.

Hermione had previously fallen in love with the Seattle Sound, and with a young Chris Cornell in particular. She owned every Soundgarden album, and had even purchased the Temple of the Dog album.

As they walked to the Underground station, Hermione asked what he thought about the movie.

“The music was good,” he said. “But I think everyone’s problems just came from not being honest with one another.”

She nodded. “Yeah, it seems silly to not just say what you mean, or trust the other person to say what they mean.”

“You lit up when Chris Cornell was onscreen,” Oliver teased her.

“Well, if I’m being honest, I think he’s good-looking,” she said. “And, he’s got an amazing voice.”

“Sure, if you like that kind of thing,” Oliver said with a dismissive shrug, feigning indifference.

She bit her lip suggestively and waggled her eye brows at him. “And what do you have against good-looking, curly-haired people?” she asked, archly.

“Nothing, considering my girl is one. But if said girl is lusting after another such person, then all bets are off,” Oliver said, gathering her up to him.

She laughed. and buried her nose in his chest. He was wearing his springtime cologne, and smelled like lavender and mint, and sandalwood. She wanted to bite him.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” she said.

“Because he lives in America?” he said, smiling, teasing her.

“Yes, that’s the reason,” she said, her arms around his waist, a fair amount of lust in her eyes.

“Maybe I should take up the guitar to be on the safe side,” he said.

She smiled.

“‘They say it’s bad luck, to have fallen for me,’” he sang into her ear, as she let out a low throaty laugh. “‘What can I do, to make it good for you?’”

“I can think of one thing,” she said.

They made out while they waited for the train, and went to get high with the boys on the roof once they got home. Neville had been experimenting, and this particular strain was very strong. Hermione soon fell asleep under the blackthorn tree.

When she woke up, Oliver had taken her downstairs to her room. He was in the shower, taking a little longer than usual as he still very high.

She took a deep breath and undressed and went to shower with him. She hadn’t been naked in front of him before.

He smiled at her, as she got into the shower. His dilated eyes and brain slowly absorbing her presence. She smiled back. She wasn’t as high as he was, just enough to be very, very relaxed.

They made perfunctory use of the soap, mostly kissing and touching under the warm stream. Oliver turned the water off, and wrapped her in a towel, drying her lovingly. She touched the nape of his neck, as he dried her legs and feet.

“Go lie down?” he suggested. His pupils were still blown, and he smiled dreamily at her.

She went, as he dried himself off and put his boxers on. The light was still on.

He grinned at her, as he got into bed, her body outlined by the sheet. He threw the sheet up over his head, making a tent. He straddled her, softly stroked her skin. She sighed. She was warm, but his hands were warmer. He mapped her body with his eyes, taken in by the random freckles and birthmarks that appeared on her skin. She touched his face, bringing him back to earth, and he laughed, falling down beside her. He moved his hand into her hair, smiling. She kissed his neck and chest. He kissed her hands, and then sucked at her ear lobe and kissed his way down her neck. He moved on top of her again, sucking a hickey onto her shoulder. She played with his hair, and kneaded his arms and shoulders. He kissed and sucked at one nipple while twisting at the other. She sucked her breath in, holding it.

“Talk to me,” Oliver said.

She shook her head. “My brain will just kick in. Just…keep doing what you’re doing?”

He smiled. “All right, darlin girl,” he whispered in her ear. When he was high, the legilimency came easier to him, and he seemed to know just what she wanted.

She grinned and ran her hands through his hair. He was so warm. She hooked her legs around him, squeezing him with her thighs, as he kissed and sucked at her.

He turned her onto her side, coming up behind her, rock hard in his boxers. He reached around her.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

His fingers found her wet and she pushed into him as he made little circles. He came faster than she did, grunting into her ear. He was too high for self-control. She held her head in her arms, pushing back against him. She started to laugh.

“No?” he asked, a little startled.

“Yes,” she said, and her laughter turned into a moan. He was so warm. She felt so good and so safe under his arm. Her body shuddered as she came, and she wished the light off, as her eye lids closed. He kissed her hair and neck sleepily. They soon fell asleep together, his hand sticky and still between her thighs.

* * *

The next Sunday, Hermione cornered Fleur, whispering her questions about sex and birth control, while Harry and Ron did whatever Harry and Ron did without her.

They discussed the situation while making Ron’s birthday cake.

“Have you…?” Fleur asked.

“Not that yet. He’s being very patient about it. He hasn’t pressured me at all. But I’m just stuck. I feel absurd about it, in general.”

“What’s absurd, dear?” asked Molly, walking in from the other room, having found her yarn.

“Sex,” Hermione said plainly.

“Have you spoken to your parents…”

“Oh, I know how it works,” Hermione said, making vague gestures with her hands. “I just…I can’t decide if it’s a big deal or not.”

“Well. To be perfectly honest, it’s whatever you decide it is,” said Molly, surprising them both. They had expected her to excuse herself to the laundry, or henhouse. Or to lecture them about the importance of marriage.

“If you’re with someone you feel safe with, who respects you, and cares for you, it’s a very beautiful experience,” Molly continued. “But it doesn’t have to mean more than you want it to mean. Your value isn’t tied to your virginity, and no one should make you feel bad about your choices.”

Bill had never told Fleur, but his parents had sat him down when he was 15 and lectured him on the importance of being a receptive, loving and respectful partner. Sex, his mother had told him, was only as good as the other person thought it was, and if he wasn’t going to engage in consensual relations, that led to both their enjoyment, then he needed to consider his motives. He had never been so embarrassed. But he took his mother’s words to heart.

Molly had grown up in a traditional wizarding household, being taught that sex was strictly for procreation. In her last year at Hogwarts, however, the sexual revolution and feminism made its way to their dormitories though muggle magazines subscribed to by muggleborn students.

The night the Fat Lady had told her off for staying out till four in the morning, she and Arthur had been arguing over women’s rights—and not just to work, but to orgasm, too. Molly was going to have a life she wanted, inside and outside the bedroom, because that’s what she wanted, and it wasn’t a question of what Arthur would or would not permit.

Their marriage was equitable, and loving, and she hoped that all her sons would be as loving a husband as she had.

“Really, it doesn’t matter if you’re were married or not,” Molly said. “What’s important is that you feel respected and safe. If you do, and want to try things, you should.”

Molly took up her knitting, and Fleur widened her eyes in surprise, though she was very impressed. She expected her mother-in-law to take a much more old-fashioned view of things. Her own mother certainly did.

“It’s my clothes that are old-fashioned, dears, not my mind,” Molly said, waving a knitting needle at them as the girls burst into giggles.

Fleur squeezed Molly’s shoulders, and Hermione charmed the cake baked.

Hermione was unusually quiet all through dinner that night, as she considered what Molly said.

* * *

The next time Oliver came over, he was tired after his match, but still glad to see Hermione.

She looked a little apprehensive when she invited him to come upstairs. They went to her room, and instead of putting a CD on like she usually did, she sat down on the rug and pulled out a copy of The Joy of Sex from under her bed.

It was an old edition from the 1970s that she had found at the used book store. For all her innate Gryffindor qualities, she didn’t think she’d be able to get through this without visuals for a place to start, because she couldn’t say “clitoris” to someone who had technically already intimately acquainted with hers, though they’d both been high.

She sort of wished she were high right now because then she’d loosen up a bit. Because this wasn’t a transfiguration lecture, and she couldn’t just say “Hey Oliver, you know that thing you did, I would like to do that some more along with these other things that I’ve marked with a Post-It.”

Well, she could, but maybe not without dying of embarrassment.

It didn’t help that wizarding sex education materials were so dry. The St. Mungo’s pamphlets that she’d surreptitiously taken didn’t give any information really, except for some very simple diagrams, and some very clinical language about how to avoid pregnancy. The charms were useful, but she wasn’t sure about sexually transmitted diseases, and she wasn’t even sure if they were the same for the magical community. It was silly to know about dragon pox, or spattergroit, but not be sure if you’d get herpes!

Again, she lamented the fact that Hogwarts didn’t teach anatomy. Or even a proper Health class. What was the point of knowing how to brew amortentia, if it didn’t also repel unwanted pregnancy or sexually transmitted disease. Or, you know, not put people in compromising positions in the first place…

Maybe that’s what she should do with her life—get a school counselor and sex ed classes implemented as part of the Hogwarts curriculum. She remembered reading about periods in muggle pamphlets that her mother had to send her via owl post because the ones that Madame Pomfrey still mentioned sanitary napkins with belts…

The furrow increased on her brow, as Oliver looked up from the book.

“Hermione?”

She blinked out of her reverie.

“Hello. Sorry.”

Oliver raised his eyebrows at her. She shrugged.

“Everything alright?” Oliver asked.

“Yes,” she said, and leaned onto his shoulder.

“You want me to let you read a while?” he asked, putting his arm around her. “Or, I can read to you.”

He smiled, and thought it was pretty cute that she had a book. Because, of course, she had a book...

“What are these?” he asked, holding a Post-It between his index finger and thumb, genuinely curious.

“It’s a muggle invention. A piece of paper with a little bit of glue on the back,” she said. “You can use it to make notes on, or mark your place.”

“Useful.”

“Yeah. I’ll show you a movie about how they were invented,” she said, thinking of “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion,” which had been one of the first Movie Night movies.

Oliver took the book from her, and looked at her notes written in her tiny, fine handwriting on the Post-It, and at the pages she marked.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Oliver…”

He looked up from the page and smiled, and then bit his bottom lip to keep from grinning. She could see the laughter in his eyes, and couldn’t help but burst out laughing herself.

“Sorry. Let me try again.” She inhaled and exhaled, and said, “Do you think we could look at this together, and you could give me your thoughts on some of the…situations…described?”

She went pink in the face.

“That would be one way to pass the time before dinner,” he said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

She smiled, and flipped the pages of her book. “This, for example?”

She pointed to an illustration. Oliver’s eyes grew dark, and she thought of the Big Bad Wolf and teeth. She shivered, delighted.

Her door was charmed shut; and Grimmauld Place had long known how to keep a secret behind a closed door.

Oliver looked through a few pages, and then moved the book away.

“Would you like a practical demonstration?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she said.

Oliver decided to stay on the floor, thinking the bed might make her nervous. Which was correct. She lay down, and he propped himself up in his elbow.

“Can I?” he asked, fingering the hem of her shirt. She nodded and watched, biting her lower lip, as he lifted her shirt up over her breasts. He ran his fingers down her throat and across her chest until his right thumb found her nipple under her unlined bra. He rubbed her nipple hard. He took the other into his mouth, and she moaned softly.

He shifted on top of her, and she opened her legs to make room for his thigh. She could feel his hard on through their clothes. She rocked her pelvis underneath him, savoring the growing pull between her thighs.

She could feel herself growing wetter. She wanted his fingers, his mouth on hers. She blushed, while he kissed her neck and shoulders, and she thought about some of the book’s illustrations.

She reached up under his shirt. He was always so warm. She ran her hands up his back, and dug her nails into his skin when he bit her neck where it met her shoulder. He sucked the salt from her skin, and she thought she would cry.

“Some of this wasn’t quite what was described by your bookmarks. Am I getting ahead of myself?” he asked, putting his thumb into her mouth, and rubbing her lower lip, soft and wet.

She licked at his fingers. “Don’t make fun of the Post-Its.”

“I would never,” he growled in her ear. She grinned into his neck, stifling a giggle.

He whispered “Do you want me to touch you, like last time?”

Her breath caught in her throat.

She nodded, and kneaded at his arms, and hooked one of his legs with hers.

“Are you sure?” he teased her, nuzzling her neck.

“Yes,” she almost whined.

He unzipped her pants, and she lifted up, so he could pull her pants down to midthigh. He propped himself up on his other elbow, and touched her through her underwear.

“You are wet,” he said in a low growl.

She nodded and turned to her side, so she could push into him. She forgot about the Post-Its as he slid his fingers down her hip, and past the elastic leg-band of her underwear. He inhaled sharply as he touched her. She was dripping.

She responded to his fingers by rocking her hips back and forth, almost guiding the movement of his fingers. He slid his fingers between her labial lips, moving up and down before making soft circles around her clit with his fore and middle fingers.

She moaned into the carpet, and pushed into him, feeling him hard behind her. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and moved his fingers a little faster. She was almost too slick. He could feel her tensing her thighs. She was close.

“Do you want to come?” he asked into her ear.

She shivered and nodded.

“Say it,” he said, breathing deeply, and slowing his fingers almost to a stop.

She breathed out his name, and he groaned.

“Tell me,” he said. “Please.”

“Make me come,” she whispered. And after a minute more, she began to laugh and then she breathed out his name again, drawing out the last syllable. He closed his eyes and exhaled, and she climbed on top of him, kissing his mouth hungrily before dropping her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms tightly around her while she listened his heart pound.

“We should go downstairs,” he said after a minute, grabbing her ass firmly. “We’re late.”

She giggled and didn’t very much care. She got to her feet slowly, zipping her pants.

He went to wash his hands in the restroom sink, as one does before eating. She followed, and washed her hands before pulling her hair up into a bun. She looked a little flushed, but happy.

Oliver kissed her, hugging her to him. They apparated into the kitchen.

She sat in her usual chair, a little dazed, not yet meeting anyone’s eye, while Oliver served her a plate. He was talking to Harry and Ron about their days, laughing at a story Harry was telling.

Harry had given Kreacher the night off, and ordered too much Indian food; though the three boys would make a sizeable dent into everything Harry ordered.

Harry and Oliver genuinely got along, Ron seemed tolerant. If Ron had any hopes of getting back with Hermione, he didn’t bother her with them.

Hermione thanked Oliver for her food, and while he served himself, she thought about how nice Oliver was. Just so nice it made her want to bite him. Hard.

He winked at her, and she blushed. She always forgot about his legilimency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, this is sex. check out ohjoysextoy dot com's excellent comic on "what is sex?" if you're interested. i won't link, just in case it's not allowed?


	20. Chapter 20

In April, Hermione squeezed out an evening’s worth of free time to see Coldplay with Sam, a local band he’d heard a lot about. They didn’t have an album yet, but she liked them. Chris Martin could really sing.

Her studies were picking up their pace, but she made time to make a few zines to relax and talk to Harry while she glued them together.

Other times, she charmed her notes and textbooks to read themselves out loud as she sat cutting out photos and letters from her magazines. She figured Madame Pomfrey could duplicate her zines if students wanted one. She had made several: one on periods (“Sanitary belts, indeed,” she’d huffed); another on sex (acts of all kinds, applicable to all participants); and another on emotional well-being and sex (or, how to talk about it). The last one was more musings than practical advice.

She thought she was fairly lucky with Oliver, who was receptive and never seemed to take anything personally. She could give Oliver direction, which helped her receive feedback, and he never pressured her to try anything she didn’t want to, though the more she read, and the more they did, the more open she was to things.

She had talked about it with Beth, whose first experience was awkward, and uncomfortable, and the boy never talked to her again afterward. Fleur had said her first time had been nice. Not a horror story, but nothing supremely special, either. She figured having updated pamphlets would be useful to other girls.

She wanted to write some for boys, too. She asked Harry about helping her write something. She asked Oliver, too. She didn’t want to moralize or editorialize penis-having, because she didn’t have one and wasn’t sure where to start.  
She was still curious about wizarding venereal disease. But that would have to be a summer project. She didn’t have time now.

While she studied, and did her craft projects, Oliver’s team was playing their final games of the season. Their starting team seeker had been injured in a nasty blatching incident, and was being kept at St. Mungo’s for observation, so Oliver had been called up to play. Oliver scratched her hurried notes, and usually charmed them into a Voice Mail. Unlike a Howler, a Voice Mail spoke at regular volume. He usually charmed the paper to kiss her cheek, or her forehead, if he was feeling particularly tender. The Voice Mail would then refold itself neatly so that she could keep it, and reread it if she wanted to.

Oliver invited her to meet his parents the first weekend of the month.

Instead of Sunday dinner at the Weasleys, they went to his parents’ home in Scotland. Before their arrival, his father, Lennox, had commented to his wife that their son must be very serious about Hermione, as he’d brought her to visit while the season was still on. They hadn’t expected her until the season was over.

The Woods, being a long-lined Pureblood family, actually lived in a castle near the Cairngorms National Park.

“It’s just a very small castle—no moat or anything,” he joked, after seeing the look on Hermione’s face.

“Oh, Oliver. Why didn’t you say?” she said, suddenly apprehensive.

“I met your parents at Christmas,” he countered. “The way I see it, you’re long overdue.”

“I suppose…” she said, as he hugged her.

She knew Oliver was from a long-lined pureblood family because he’d never spent much time in the Muggle world, but he never talked about a castle, or bragged about his upbringing—unlike Draco who had often talked about his parents’ manor house, their house elves, nice china and silver service. Oliver was very down to earth. She figured he lived in a nicer version of The Burrow.

The Wood family had taken care of their fortune throughout the generations, and their grounds still thrived with sheep, and grain. The way he’d spoken about it made it sound like they lived on a farm, telling her stories about shearing sheep, and occasionally helping his father with the harvest.

Hermione, who had taken to subscribing to muggle high fashion magazines, wished she was wearing the Alexander McQueen grey woolen dress with high slits on the front of the thigh that she’d seen on the pages of W. (Just the coats from that year’s Autumn/Winter show convinced her that Alexander McQueen was an extraordinary designer. Was he a wizard living among muggles? They were not unlike things she’d seen at Madam Malkin’s. But she knew Muggle and Wizard fashion intersected often.) Since she couldn’t afford an haute couture ensemble, she had to settle for a blowout, a swipe of Shiseido lipstick, and her red cashmere sweater, with a pair of camel colored wool slacks, and some brown suede Calvin Klein loafers with chunky heels. 

His parents were lovely people, and thoroughly charmed by Hermione, who remained composed when their Deerhound impertinently goosed her while Oliver was making introductions.

“So sorry, his manners aren’t much better than Oliver’s,” Lennox said.

Hermione smiled. “He might be a little cuter.”

Oliver turned red. “Don’t pit me against my siblings!”

“I apologize,” she said, looking up at Oliver and leaning her head fondly on his shoulder.

Isobel smiled at them and invited Hermione to see the grounds.

“Oh, it’s so beautiful,” Hermione said, as they walked through the garden nearest the house. It was full of flowers.

“Oliver thinks very highly of you,” Isobel said lightly.

Hermione blushed. “I think very highly of him. He’s very thoughtful, very kind, and gentlemanly. He’s very special.”

“I think so, and not just because I’m his mother.”

They smiled at each other, and Isobel showed her around the garden, and pointed out various sites of unruly childhood behavior on Oliver’s part.

Oliver’s family portraits had whispered approvingly as Hermione passed, and Oliver gave them all a thumbs up behind Hermione’s back.

They’d had a lovely dinner, full of laughs, as Oliver’s father liked to joke just as much as her own father, and he treated Hermione to a few childhood stories about Oliver.

“Oliver was very curious, and very stubborn,” his father said. “I’ll never forget the first time he watched us shearing sheep. We blade shear, no machines. It’s easiest when you lean the sheep back in a sort of sitting position while singing your calming charms. You trim their belly first, then their legs, and neck, shoulder and so on. It’s nicer to blade shear. Some wizards will charm their wool off all at once, but I think the sheep get a little ornery for a few days from the shock.

Well, Oliver thought he would give it a go, but Raspberry was just as big as he was, and Oliver couldn’t hold her up. But Oliver was determined to try. He kept wrestling with her, and finally, Raspberry nipped his ear, and trotted off.”

“Well, I sheared her eventually,” Oliver said. He had named Raspberry, and as a long-lived wizarding breed of sheep, she was still running around on the farm.

When his mother began to eye the family photo albums, Oliver had firmly drawn the line.

“Don’t even think about it, mother,” he’d said, knowing full well which photo she would tease him with first. Oliver’s mother’s favorite photo was one she had taken during an early morning diaper change. Oliver had peed on his father’s shirt, and his father laughed, and the camera shook at the end, because his mother was laughing, too.

After dinner, he whistled as he helped his mother clear the table, a sure sign their son was happy. (Oliver’s mother’s family had not had house elves, and soon after her marriage, she had come to an understanding with them that there were some things she would do herself, thank you very much. She wanted her son to be grounded).

His parents were promised a longer visit once the season was over, and they flooed back to Harry’s.

His father, who was not a legilimens, remarked to his wife that their son must be in love, as he didn’t talk about quidditch once during dinner. His mother, smiled knowingly, and kissed her husband’s cheek, and thought she’d better start saving her nicest wool for booties and christening sweaters. Just in case.

Not too soon.

But someday.

* * *

There was no Sunday dinner at the Weasleys the first weekend of May. Fleur went into labor instead.

Charlie waited with his parents, and the Delacours in the small family waiting room at St. Mungo’s to await the new arrival. The Delacours had arrived from France the Sunday before, to help their daughter prepare their house, and wait for their new grandchild. Gabrielle was at Beauxbatons, and had demanded hourly owls. Harry and Ginny had brought them lunch earlier in the day, packed lovingly by Kreacher, and Hermione and Oliver arrived later that afternoon to bring them cold drinks and offered to get their dinner from a Muggle chip shop nearby. They knew Arthur’s weakness for muggle fast food. They’d been waiting all day with Harry and Ginny at Grimmauld Place, not wanting to overrun the waiting room.

They took Arthur, who never passed up a chance to visit Muggle London, and Oliver placed a large order. He paid with a few pound notes.

Arthur made to give Oliver some galleons, but Oliver nonverbally charmed shut the pocket that held Arthur’s wallet with a wink. Arthur was gracious in his defeat, and stepped aside to watch them portion chips through the window, fascinated by the fryers.

They had just returned to the hospital’s family waiting room when Bill burst in and exclaimed, “It’s a girl! Her name is Victoire. She looks just like her mother.”

He was bursting with pride, as everyone gathered round to hug him, and shake his hand. Bill went back to Fleur and their little girl, and the family sat down sharing grins and tears. Hermione sent a patronus to Harry and Ginny, and George and Ron, to let them know about the baby, and they all soon apparated to the street entrance. Hermione transfigured the food and drinks to accommodate everyone.

It wasn’t the fanciest meal, but it certainly was one of the happiest. Everyone laughed and drank, and made toasts. After an hour, they were let back a few at a time to meet the newest edition to their family. Victoire had not liked to leave her mother’s womb, and was red from crying after her first bath. She had wisps of silvery blonde hair, and Hermione teared up when Fleur put her in her arms.

“Oh, she is perfect,” Hermione cooed, touching her tiny finger nails and kissing her tiny hand. Oliver felt a strange sensation in his stomach. He looked stricken. Almost like he’d fallen off his broom.

Bill, recognizing the symptoms, winked at him, and clapped him on the back.

They had waited until all the Weasleys and Delacours had been in to see the baby. They didn’t stay long, as Fleur was exhausted and Hermione knew the grandparents were chomping at the bit to come back inside.

“We want you and Charlie to be the godparents,” Bill said.

“My parents want to ‘ave the ceremony at our ‘ome in France,” Fleur said, “Per’aps in Octobre.”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said, grinning.

Hermione was nothing but happy while Oliver took a few photos of her with the baby. She gave the baby back to Fleur, and they left the little family to themselves. They walked home to Grimmauld Place, hand in hand.

Harry had told Hermione that Oliver could move in during the off-season if she wanted him to. Harry didn’t really care what they got up to, and he liked having people around the house. It felt like a family. There was enough space in the house, if anyone felt like a solitary hour. He and Hermione and Ron had become a family, and he wanted as much of it as he could get.

Hermione had written to him, the month before asking if he wanted to move in during the offseason.

“Only if it won’t interfere with your studying, darlin,” his Voice Mail said, and kissed her forehead.

Oliver was a good influence on her, he was respectful of her study time, but he reminded her to eat, and coaxed her to bed as she tended to fall asleep reading in the parlor. He’d picked her up and carried her to bed more than once. One night she pretended to be asleep, and gave herself away by giggling while he carried her to their room.

“Oh, I see…” he said, and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed. She laughed, as he stripped to his boxers, and hopped onto the bed to cover her in kisses.

Hermione was much more relaxed than her OWL year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-1999-ready-to-wear/alexander-mcqueen/slideshow/collection#40) is the dress she wanted to wear.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> periods. sex. general enjoyment.

A few days after Victoire had arrived, they were on the roof, listening to Mazzy Star. Hermione was taking a study break, and Oliver was taking advantage of her study break.

Hermione loved these albums. They were growing on Oliver. Hope Sandoval’s voice was very soft. Hypnotic. But he didn’t want a nap. He reached up under her shirt, squeezing her breast gently. Hermione closed her eyes. Her breasts were tender. She was on her period. The first one she’d had since he moved in. She wasn’t sure how to say, “Oliver, I’m on my period.” She especially didn’t want to talk about it because she was wearing a pad; her body kept pushing out the tampon every time she tried to wear one.

It had made her time on the run very hard, and exceptionally irritating, especially toward the end when the pads she transfigured from her one pack of pads weren’t as absorbent or soft. Magic isn’t always the solution it seems to be.

Hermione was brought back to the present by Oliver kissing her neck and nuzzling her ear.

She whispered, “We can’t.” Though she felt very conflicted, because she wanted to.

“Why? Are you feeling ok?” he asked, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“I’m on my period,” she said, looking slightly ashamed.

“Oh,” he said, furrowing his brow and looking confused. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

“Alright?” he was genuinely confused.

“It isn’t gross?” she asked.

“No? Why?”

“How are you so cool about this?” she asked, looking very relieved. She kissed his cheek.

“I don’t know. Cause it’s not a big deal?” he shrugged.

She laughed and hugged his neck. “Any time I’d mention I had cramps, Ron would turn green and ignore me for a few days, and Harry would mention the hospital wing. Or offer me tea, or hot water in that last year.”

Oliver shrugged. “Are you tired? Do you want to go lie down? I’ll walk to the corner and get you some chocolate?” he offered.

“Ok,” she said, knowing she didn’t have to remind him she liked Fry’s Peppermint Cream. She went to lie down, and when she woke up an hour later, she found a Fry’s, a Cadbury Dairy Milk, and a note on her bedside table.

_Hello, Sleeping Beauty. I went to see George. Let me know when you’re awake, and I’ll floo back. xO_

She opened the Dairy Milk and took a bite. Then she put her shoes back on, and opened the Fry’s. She floo’ed to the Leaky Cauldron, and walked into the alley.

When she got to the joke shop, she walked in to see Ron flirting with a blonde witch. For the first time, she didn’t feel anything about it. It had happened a few times before, and every time she’d gotten a weird sinking feeling in her stomach. But today, everything stayed exactly in place.

“Are they upstairs?” she asked.

Ron nodded, and turned his attention back to the witch in front of him. Oliver was making George some Spaghetti Bolognese, while George sat, laughing at the table.

“Hi, guys,” she said, giving George a hug.

“Hi, darlin,” Oliver said from near the stove.

They had a nice lunch together, and afterward George went back to work, and Hermione and Oliver walked around the alley. Oliver bought her some peppermint toads.

When they got back to Grimmauld Place, they watched Four Weddings and A Funeral on her little TV/VCR that she and Arthur Weasley had taken apart and put back together. It had taken them a few tries to get it right. But now, it didn’t usually eat tapes. Every once and a while, Oliver would ask if she wanted anything. After the movie was over, she straddled his lap and said, “Oh, you’re just so nice.”

“It’s easy to be nice to you,” he said, looking at her like he loved her.

She couldn’t help biting her lip, and kissing him like she wanted him. They made out for a few minutes, and he asked if she wanted to fool around.

“I read that orgasm can help with your cramps,” he said. “It was in one of the rubbishy magazines you have lying about.”

Hermione figured it was the Cosmo, which she’d bought for its promised tips and tricks. But most of them sounded pretty stupid. The chocolate she’d bought with it had been better.

“You want to see if it’s true?” he asked. She smiled at him. He obviously didn’t care. So why should she? 

She could catch up on her reading tomorrow.

* * *

Hermione sat her NEWTs in early June, and then broke out her roller skates while she waited for the results. Sometimes Oliver went with her, or he went to fly with Harry, or his quidditch friends, and she wandered around alone, meeting up with friends for lunch. Sometimes they went to the National Gallery, or to the Tate. Sometimes, she and Oliver would go to a movie, where they ate buttered popcorn, and shared greasy kisses. He held her hand, and sometimes just stared at her in the dark.

The night they saw Run Lola Run, was the night he said he loved her out loud. They’d been standing on the corner waiting for the signal to cross the street, to take the tube home and he twirled her into him, hugging her close. He knew that she did, and he chose to say so. The moment was tender, and heartfelt, and all she could have wanted. It was so easy to say she loved him, too.

She whispered to him that she was ready.

After all the romance novels, she expected pain and blood. But it didn’t hurt all that much when he put his “pulsating manhood into her quivering…” whatever. All she felt was the sensation of him gently pushing in and out. Oliver had spent an awfully long time on foreplay, making sure she was relaxed, kissing away her nervousness and answering her questions about it while he fingered her until she was dripping and eager to try.

“Oh, you feel incredible,” he said. And she moaned and nodded, because it did feel good. Her fingers of her left hand were curling into her hair at the top of her skull, while the fingers of her right hand dug into Oliver’s arm. She felt the walls of her vagina tightening around him, and he groaned and pressed open mouth kisses onto her mouth and neck.

“Oh Oliver,” she sighed, kneading his arms with her hands, and squeezing him with her thighs.

“You can touch yourself if it helps you,” he whispered into her ear.

She nodded and ran her hands down her back and kissed him. She gently ran her fingers down his sides. He shuddered, because he was a little ticklish, which she liked. She wanted to touch her clit, and she didn’t want to, because she wasn’t ready to come because then it would be over.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she whispered. “You feel really good, this feels so good.”

Oliver just nodded. He was thinking of Arithmancy problems, trying very hard not to come. She finally reached down, and made the little circles that she liked so much. She was so turned on, it didn’t take her long until her breath was shallow, and she was panting in his ear.

“Just a little faster,” she whispered. “Just a little harder.”

He complied, and she said “Oh yes…” with just a little laugh in her throat. She laughed. She couldn’t help laughing. But Oliver knew she was having a good time. She laughed because one of the movie night movies had been The Opposite of Sex and one of the characters pondered that she “…would rather have a backrub, you know. It lasts longer and there's no fluids. You know, what's so great about that? It's like, ‘Hi! I'd like to blow my nose on your face.’ I mean, you wouldn't like that, would you?” So, Hermione thought about how this was like blowing her nose on Oliver’s face, but she also laughed because this wasn’t like that at all. This was nicer. So, when Hermione laughed, Oliver just smiled, and didn’t take offence.

She grabbed his back, as her stomach clenched, and she felt her whole body just tighten around him. “Please stay there, don’t…don’t pull out yet,” she said, as he thrust into her two more times before coming himself.

“I won’t, I won’t,” he said, falling onto his forearms, and kissing her neck.

“That was good?” she asked.

“So fucking good,” he said, kissing her forehead and smiling. He started to pull out, and she shook her head, clenching around him. He sighed and kissed her mouth as he pulled gently out. She thought she would die.

“I can’t move,” she said. He lay on his side, and pushed her hair away from her eyes. He smiled at her as she just blinked at him.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” she answered. She nuzzled his neck, and they fell asleep, sticky and sweaty, and happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was nice after all the american election day feels.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NEWTS and a job.

A Ministry owl arrived the next morning, apparating into the kitchen. Kreacher gave it a slice of toast, and Hermione looked at her scores. She hadn’t the long wait as she did with her OWLs, since she was just one student taking the exam, and not one of hundreds. The Hogwarts exams would take place nearer the end of the month.

“What a witch you are,” Oliver said, standing behind her, and holding her in a bear hug. All Outstanding, except for Defense Against the Dark Arts. This time, she laughed at her Exceeds Expectations.

To celebrate, they went to a muggle dance club called The Cross in King’s Cross with Harry, Ginny, George, Angelina and Ron, who had broken up with the witch he’d been seeing. Draco met them there, bringing his new girlfriend Astoria Greengrass. Neville came, too. He was a pretty good dancer, and had plans to meet up with one of the girls from the park that Hermione skated with. Hermione had introduced them, and they took a shine to each other after they both liked succulents.

Hermione had transfigured a pair of thrifted pants to look like a pair of Alexander McQueen tartan pants that she’d seen in an older fashion magazine. She had on an old, thin white t-shirt, her black lace bra showing though. She wore black winged eyeliner, her red Shiseido lipstick, and leather cuffs. She looked fierce and strong.

McQueen’s clothing called to Hermione, but she had a soft spot for Jean Paul Gaultier, too. Having grown up when watching a music video premiere was an event, she had transfigured her Muggle bra to look like Madonna’s cone bra. She didn’t even try it on. She knew she didn’t have the swagger for corsetry. Besides. She liked deep breaths. She transfigured it back, but held secret dreams of owning a Mr. Pearl corset and handmade Parisian bras.

Maybe she would ask Fleur about it.

They all danced till the girls couldn’t feel their feet in their platform shoes. They left after 3 a.m., knowing Kreacher would make them pancakes, and fry up some ham and eggs.

The next morning, Oliver’s eyes squinted open, as Hermione shot up next to him. It was only 8:30 a.m.

“Oliver, I think I know what I want to do,” she said, sitting up in bed and holding her hands to her head, as though trying to keep her idea in.

He knew she was serious, so he didn’t make jokes about knowing what he wanted to do.

“I think I want to get involved in the Muggle Liason office. But not to interact with Muggles, coming up with muggle-worthy excuses, or accidental magic reversal. I want to help muggleborns adjust to their new reality. Our world and the muggle world is so, so different, it’s a culture shock for young students, but also their families. Look at the internet. Look at email. All these changes happening that affect how our families communicate, but our magic interferes with. There has to be a way to adjust to make it easier for our families to interact with us while we’re at school, and keep us connected, if we want to be.”

He was properly awake now, and turned onto his elbow to listen to her.

“Like the CD I gave you for example. If a Muggle family member had sent it to me at Hogwarts for my birthday, or Christmas, I wouldn’t be able to listen to it, because you can’t make a Discman play at Hogwarts. But I made up that charm. Surely there’s more that we can do. All these little things. They make us apart, when really, it just means we have a different perspective to offer.”

“I think this is important,” he said. “This is good, really clever. Wizards should have a better understanding of the world. It makes it easier to blend in, and we’re less likely to look like prats doing it.”

She smiled.

“Being muggleborn isn’t an impediment. It doesn’t make us lesser,” she said, taking a deep breath.

Oliver grinned at her, and coaxed her back to the warm sheets, and he fell back to sleep as he rubbed her bare back, as she lay on his chest, her fingers idly traveling his muscled torso, her brain going a hundred miles an hour.

* * *

It was actually Harry who had planted the very small seed of an idea about her work. Harry had joined the Aurors office in May, having enjoyed every minute of his year off. He decided it was time to get to work.

“We didn’t live through all that for the world to stay exactly the same,” Harry had told her the night before he started his job.

He had started as a junior officer, not wanting anyone to think that he was there unfairly. No one would’ve argued the point, as he’d defeated the most powerful dark wizard since Grindelwald. But he hadn’t sat his NEWTs, and stubbornly clung to the idea that he would accept anything for free.

Hermione ruminated on what Harry had said, and on her decision, while they were at Glastonbury. She talked through it with Oliver at night before they went to sleep.

They had protected their tents with Muggle repelling charms, so no one would see the insides, which were much different than most everyone else’s tents. She and Harry were still using the tents Arthur had lent them, but they had aired the tents out so they didn’t stink of cats, or damp. Kreacher had cleaned them out properly, and bought new cots and bedding. Most of the kitchen stuff was still useable, but the easy chairs had needed reupholstering, and Harry had sent them into Diagon Alley for repair. They skipped the Glasto shower line, opting to warm water on the stove, and use a washbasin and washcloth. They had a much nicer time of it than most, having access to clean towels, a stove and a comfortable place to sleep.

Oliver was glad that she had found an idea that excited her. He knew she spent a lot of time trying to sort out her feelings about the magical world and her place in it.

While they lay in their bed at Glastonbury, Hermione told him that she was torn between wanting to foster more cordial relationships with other magical beings as well establish new protocols for wizarding interactions with beings determined as having creature-status under wizarding statute.

“I just can’t decide if it’s time to do that work yet when we can’t even have honest conversations about blood status amongst wizards,” she said. “It’s sort of how it’s easier for muggles to care about dogs in the pound than a homeless person.”

Oliver was appalled by both concepts when she explained them, and saw her point.

“Don’t get me wrong, though,” Hermione said. “It’s a very imperfect analogy.”

Oliver suggested that she still had the opportunity to do both if she wanted.

"You can volunteer to participate in other people's projects," he said. "You don't have to do everything yourself."

She hugged him, and smiled because he was right—she didn't.

When they returned from Glastonbury, Hermione made an appointment for Monday, July 5, to talk to the Minister about her prospects in the Ministry.

She and Oliver skipped Sunday dinner so she could try on all her clothes. She decided on a very smart wool suit in the style of the late-1940s Dior New Look suits. She had found the suit in a secondhand shop, and charmed and transfigured it until it looked presentable.

She wanted to look extremely professional, especially because she was young. She had taken great care with her hair, and wore a neutral lip and a little mascara. But it was important to her to wear a muggle woman’s suit and not robes because of what she was proposing. Walberga had watched her proudly as she came down the stairs, and Oliver kissed her cheek before she flooed to the Ministry.

“Knock ‘em all down,” he said, as she walked into the fire, and smiled with nervous anticipation.

After 15 minutes with Kingsley, he introduced her to the head of the Muggle Liaison Office. She hadn’t taken her OWL in Muggle Studies, but she was confident as she discussed her proposal.

“I think it’s important, especially after having fought a war over blood status, that the Ministry take a more proactive role in shaping the Wizarding community’s opinions of muggleborn witches and wizards,” she said. “I’ve been following some of the work that has been done over the past year, but we need to do more. For instance, we should begin to have honest conversations about blood status, and its significance, or insignificance, as the case may be. muggleborns have long been labelled “Other” or “Lesser,” and we need to begin asking ourselves why.”

It was a very exciting 30 minutes for her. After her discussion, it was decided that they should create a new taskforce.

Though it was her idea, she didn’t want to head the new taskforce, now preliminarily called the Muggleborn Transition Oversite Taskforce. She wanted the work to be taken seriously, and knew that it might not be taken seriously if it were led by a 19-year-old witch.

Her work wasn’t what Kingsley expected of her; it wasn’t what she expected of herself, but its importance was undeniable. There would always be muggleborn witches and wizards, and it was important that they still had bridges to the world they grew up in. The magical community was too small to ignore the world at large, especially as they could never draw attention to themselves in it. That’s why it became necessary to further adjust to the everchanging muggle world. Further, attitudes needed to change in order to avoid the thinking that had led to the war in the first place.

Hermione was ready to help begin the revolution. She knew change would be slow-going, especially as it would be a 180-degree turn from the propaganda published by the Ministry under Pious Thicknesse just two years ago.

She came home that night and lovingly hung up her little suit. She would have that suit until it succumbed to moths and time. But before it did, she would take it to Saville Row, and have it copied to wear to her swearing-in ceremony as Minister for Magic.

The first thing on her agenda was to draft another pamphlet, with a special forward to be written by the Minister, to countermand the previously-published “MUDBLOODS and the Dangers they Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society.” It had never been retracted, though the Ministry had been busy rooting out those who had participated in the unlawful persecution of muggleborn witches and wizards.

Umbridge had been prosecuted and sentenced to Azkaban; but Hermione wasn’t thoroughly convinced that imprisonment was the answer, especially since the punishment was meted out by dementors. No one deserved that.

There was still heated debate in the Ministry regarding restitution for those muggleborns who had been fired from their jobs after their wands had been snapped, and were unable to work, thus losing their homes. Some had even lost family members due to their imprisonment in Azkaban, or even to suicidal despair.

Hermione was glad to hear that some of her coworkers were working on internal restructuring and change through the various departments. She wasn’t alone in this work.

Reading the aforementioned pamphlet, and a few others written while Umbridge had been in office, had made her blood boil. But she knew that the task force’s response couldn’t be reactionary. It needed to be facts-based, so that it was incontrovertible. The need for systemic change was great, and there was much work to do.

She was ready.

Oliver enjoyed her newfound passion and enthusiasm and had lively debates and discussions with her as he massaged her shoulders. Her weekdays were full of meetings and appealing to coworkers, and sometimes she and Harry would discuss the future of Wizarding law enforcement with his coworkers over lunch in the Ministry cafeteria.

The Ministry could be old-fashioned in some regards, and some people in the office weren’t sure about the need for the changes she was proposing.

She was mindful, however, and listened to her coworkers’ concerns, and asked for their feedback, and adjusted her ideas as needed, or patiently explained her views.

In other words, “Growth!” her therapist told her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with all the unrest in the world, i think it's especially important to have these conversations with the people we love. "agree to disagree" is for pizza toppings. hope you're well. <3


	23. Chapter 23

Even though she had just started her new job, she was more than happy to help when Ginny asked her assistance to throw Neville and Harry a joint birthday bash at the end of July. Neville’s birthday was on Friday, and Harry’s was on a Saturday, and they had a real weekend rager.

They had a party on Friday night for Neville, with his favorite Italian Cream cake, and invited all of their young Hogwarts and Ministry friends to the house. Oliver and Ginny invited their quidditch teammates. Hermione had invited Sam, and some of his friends. She asked Sam if he would find a band to play on the roof that night, and he asked around.

Keane played on the roof, and they set up a few kegs, and electric fans (which did not run on electricity), and everyone was invited to stay for brunch on Saturday, followed by football in the park (since they couldn’t play quidditch), and there was another party on Saturday night.

Ginny and Kreacher made a huge chocolate cake, with “Happee Birthdae Harry” written on it in green icing, in honor of Harry’s second birthday cake (His parents had in fact made him a cake for his first birthday. Harry had found a photo they had sent Sirius of Harry smashing into one with his chubby little hands, that ended with cake on the camera lens).

They had more kegs, and this time the Weird Sisters had agreed to play an hour-long house set, and their performance was followed by a fantastic fireworks display courtesy of George and Ron. Hermione was sure the Muggles next door would notice all the noise, or at least see the fireworks, but the Black secrecy charms were more than up to the task.

Oliver and Hermione even made out in the pantry for old time’s sake.

Walberga smirked at the departing guests, as Hermione, ever the planner, handed out party favor bags with potions to cure headaches, hangovers and upset stomachs, as well as a handy list of excuses for Owling in on Monday if they still weren’t sufficiently recovered. She did this both nights, and fudged the memories of their Muggle guests, as she hugged them goodbye. For the Muggle guests, she had travel-sized bottles of paracetamol, Pepto-Bismol, and a mini-booze bottles for a little “hair of the dog.”

Harry was exhausted at his desk the following Monday, barely able to keep his eyes open. Hermione winked at him as she set an Invigoration Draught on his desk between meetings.

“You’re an angel, you are,” Harry said, with an audible groan of relief. “To your good health,” he added, before tipping the cup back, feeling instantly peppier.

Her new taskforce worked on their bridging plans through August, and while it was too soon to implement any real changes with this year’s Hogwarts class, they could send out questionnaires to both the incoming students, and their parents, and conduct interviews with the older students about what actions the Ministry could have taken to make their transitions into the Wizarding world smoother.

Hogwarts did have a counselor now; Hermione had written a letter to Headmistress McGonagall just after taking her NEWTs, and she’d had remarkable success finding a suitable candidate over the summer. The new counselor had been a muggleborn witch who graduated from Hogwarts in the late 1980s. Helen Sallow had gone to university, and had worked as a school counselor for the past several years in the muggle school system. She was in process of hiring an additional two staff members to help care for the students at different age levels.

The headmistress also made plans with the board of governors to update their curriculum. It would take a while, but the Headmistress McGonagall was confident it would be for the best.

Hermione sent an owl to the headmistress, and asked for an appointment to discuss the potential student interviews to be conducted at Hogwarts, and also asked when she might have the final admittance list from the Quill of Admittance, and the Book of  
Acceptance for the next school year. Hermione, of course, had read about these magical objects in “Hogwarts: A History,” but wasn’t sure of its timeline.

The team had already put together a pamphlet about how to adjust for both parents and new students, and wanted to be available to attend the home visitations when the acceptance letters were delivered.

Hermione had a feeling that would be her favorite part of the summer.

* * *

Hermione was so happy and so busy, with work, and movies, and nights out going to shows with her friends.

Oliver’s birthday was in August, and they visited his parents for the weekend. Oliver showed her around their property, and they went swimming in the pond, and his friends came out, and they cooked out and talked about quidditch, and stayed up late. Hermione liked listening to Oliver slip in and out of his Scottish accent.

Hermione had thought she’d had enough camping to last her a lifetime, but she found she liked being outside again. And when she didn’t, she kissed Oliver’s cheek, and left him to his friends, and went inside with his mother, who was more than happy to make her some tea, and talk about anything other than quidditch.

Isobel taught Hermione some new knitting stitches, and they enjoyed each other’s company very much.

Hermione liked spending time with Oliver’s parents, who reminded her a great deal of her own. Their love hadn’t diminished with time. They still spoke their own private language.

His father called his mother “Woman!” when he was exasperated by her legilimency, and she would respond, ending her sentences calling him “sir” in a very flippant tone.

“Woman! I’ve already vanished the trash. I did it just after you asked.”

“Oh, as you say, sir. You just called me a nag. Don’t think I didn’t hear you, sir.”

Lennox came over and bit the apple of Isobel’s cheek, and she giggled and swatted at him playfully.

“Away with you now, sir.”

Her parents came to visit in the last two weeks of August, and raised their eyebrows at their daughter’s new living situation, but they saw that Oliver was a very kind, attentive and respectful beau to their only daughter. They knew he was an athlete, and listened intently as he explained quidditch.

Hermione’s father was very interested, as Oliver explained about beaters, bludgers, the seeker, and the snitch. Hermione had mentioned that Oliver played sports, but had never really explained the game in her letters home.

“It’s easy enough to understand even if it’s not too easy to play,” he said, while Michael nodded. “There are seven players on each side. Three of them are called Chasers; they throw one of the balls to each other, and try to get it through the other team’s goal. Sort of like basketball,” he offered.

Hermione’s father nodded in recognition.

“I play keeper,” he continued. “I try to keep the other team from scoring. Kind of like a football goalkeeper.”

Oliver had learned about muggle football from Dean Thomas. They had even seen a couple of games at a pub, including West Ham against Manchester United. They had both liked David Beckham, and Oliver thought it was a lot of running up and down. But enjoyed himself.

“I would love to see a game,” Michael said, as Oliver drew on a napkin.

“Well, if you’re back at Christmas, I’d be happy to invite you. The season runs November through April, usually.”

They introduced their parents to one another at dinner in London.

“Please be on your best behavior, Dad,” she begged her father, who had been teasing her all day with threats of amusing anecdotes from Hermione’s childhood.

Oliver had warned his mother that her parents were Muggles, and said she had to be on her best behavior.

“Please promise me you won’t respond to their thoughts,” he said. “Words only tonight, mother.”

“Oh, Ollie, dear. You sound just like your father,” she chided. “And anyway, up your Occlumency game, young man. It’s indecent where your mind goes sometimes.”

Oliver turned bright red, and was noticeably less affectionate toward Hermione during dinner than she was used to. She chalked it up to nerves, but she had a really good laugh when Oliver told her about it later.

Overall, dinner was very nice, and neither set of parents told too many embarrassing stories. Everyone got along very well.

Hermione was happy.

Her parents were also very proud of the work their daughter had taken up, which she had described in letters home, and sent her parents Daily Prophet clippings via muggle post. They had seen the toll discrimination took in England, Australia, America, and they had recently watched on television as Apartheid was finally dismantled in South Africa. They promised to send her books they thought would be helpful. It wasn’t exactly the same, but discrimination was discrimination, and they could more relate to that.

The morning they left, her parents sat down with Hermione in the parlor.

“We’re so proud of you, dearest,” her mother said.

“And Oliver seems like a really nice young man,” her father added.

“We just hope you’re not in too great a hurry to grow up,” her mother said wistfully.

Hermione smiled. Her parents couldn’t help regarding her as their baby, who wasn’t a child anymore.

Her mother noticed and liked her daughter’s newfound interest in her hair, makeup and clothes. Not because she wanted her daughter to dress extravagantly, or even in a certain way, but because she saw her daughter becoming more and more herself.  
Before they boarded their plane, Hermione’s father handed her their birthday present.

“Here you are, dearest,” her father said, giving her a Harrod’s gift certificate for L500.

“Thank you so much!” she’d said, her eyes wide. She hugged and kissed them both.

Her mother secreted another envelope into her pocket as they hugged goodbye.

“Don’t look now,” she whispered, and added in a louder voice: “We love you. Be good! We’ll see you soon for Christmas, and the New Year.”

“Good journey, dearest,” her father said.

“Good journey,” she said, making the gesture.

Oliver had watched them bemusedly, and Hermione told him about the movie as her parents boarded the plane.

“Oh, it’s really silly, and truly a terrible movie, but still, totally worth a watch,” she said, and promised they could rent it soon.

She always found something to like about everything. Oliver really liked that about her.

When they got home, Hermione looked in her pocket for the envelope, and found 10 crisp L50 notes, and a note not to tell her father. Her mother wrote she knew how expensive nice clothing could be, but encouraged her daughter to find beauty wherever she could, and to enjoy it.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's birthday. Victoire's baptism.

In September, Oliver asked what she most wanted for her birthday, and she said she wanted a birthday dinner with her friends.

“I haven’t had a party since I was a kid,” she mused. “There were no parties at Hogwarts, and there definitely no parties while we were on the run.”

“Well, I’m glad you had a quiet birthday to yourself last year,” Oliver said, hugging her.

“I’m glad, too,” she said, smiling.

Hermione wanted a quieter party, not because she was still shell shocked, like the year before; but because she wanted to have real conversations with her friends, and she wanted laughter, and of course, ice cream and cake.

Harry volunteered to help Kreacher decorate, as he’d had so much fun at Christmas. They hung the Christmas fairy lights, and he found a lovely birthday bunting in Diagon Alley that waved in its own little breeze. They hung it over the sideboard, where Kreacher planned to place the cake, ice cream and other desserts. Harry even went to a Muggle party store to get trick candles that would turn back on when you blew on them. (George liked these very much and ordered some to carry in the shop).

Her birthday fell on a Sunday that year, and all the Weasleys and her Muggle, Ministry and Hogwarts friends made their way to Grimmauld Place. Oliver’s quidditch team roommates came, too, including one who took a strong fancy to Parvati Patil that night.

Parvati and Hermione had become much better friends over the last several months. Hermione had sent her a long letter after seeing her at the Christmas party, and Parvati had written a long one back, and they’d slowly worked through old schoolgirl mistakes and developed a genuine and sincere friendship. They liked the people they were becoming, and were excited to have the chance to know each other again. They sometimes went to lunch during the week, as Parvati also worked for the Ministry in the Department of Mysteries with her sister, Padma.

Dinner was especially nice, as Kreacher made her everything she liked, and even made her a little sticky toffee pudding of her own, because he knew was her favorite.

After dinner, she chatted with friends over drinks, and she’d received so many little presents and cards. And Hermione realized that she—who had once been so lonely at school, and so lonely traveling the country with Harry—now had so many friends.  
Hermione’s heart was so full, and her life was growing bigger and bigger with each passing day.

Before going to bed, she thanked Oliver and Harry for her party, and later that night, arranged herself in Oliver’s arms genuinely satisfied with life.

“You know what’s been really fantastic about this last year?”

“Hm?” he said, nuzzling the back of her neck.

“I’ve been on the greatest adventure of my life, and never once risked losing it,” she said. “My life I mean.”

Oliver squeezed her. “Happy birthday, Hermione.”

“Happy birthday, Oliver,” she said, with a giggle, and kissed him good night before wordlessly turning off the light.

* * *

Oliver had moved back in with his teammates when the preseason had begun. Hermione missed being with him every day, but had plenty of work to do, and had friends to go out with.

The first weekend of October, Hermione and Oliver traveled together to France for Victoire’s baptism ceremony. 

They made a long weekend of it, and Hermione decided to buy them muggle train tickets, so Oliver could experience muggle travel. Like Arthur, he was impressed with muggle ingenuity, and understood a little more the world in which Hermione grew up.

Hermione brought along her Discman and too many CDs. She forgot her audio splitter, or at least, it didn’t come when summoned from the depths of her newly charmed vintage leather handbag. Oliver didn’t mind listening with one headphone, as Hermione had to scoot in close and rest her head on his shoulder.

When they arrived, Hermione was unabashedly a tourist, and wanted crepes. They saw the Eiffel Tower, and the Arc de Triomphe. Oliver asked a stranger to take their photo. It maybe wasn’t the best idea, as the stranger took the picture quickly and handed it back without taking an extra, just in case.

When they had the photos developed, only the tops of their heads were visible. But the Arc looked very majestic. This will forever be one of Hermione’s favorite photos of the trip.

As the Weasley’s were staying with the Delacours, she and Oliver stayed in a muggle pension nearby, though Fleur’s mother insisted they had room. Hermione got to practice the little French she’d remembered when they went to get croissants in the morning.

The weekend was very nice, and she would never fail to appreciate the love and joy she had found as a part of this family.

During the ceremony, Hermione held Victoire, and stood with Charlie before the families and pledged to her help her grow in her magical abilities (like most wizarding ceremonies, it took for granted that Victoire was magical), to be an influence for good, and never evil, all the days they shared of Victoire’s life. They lit a candle, and Victoire laughed as her godparents anointed her head with oil. Everyone clapped and smiled, and took that as a good omen.

Hermione’s thoughts drifted toward the vague future with a husband, and a family of her own. She’d blushed prettily up at Oliver, while holding the baby, and his stomach swooped again, just as if he’d fallen of a broom.

Fleur sent them later sent them photos, and Oliver took the one of Hermione smiling up at the camera, Victoire’s fist clutching her finger. Hermione found it later in a frame on his bedside table and just knew in her bones she was loved.

Hermione liked their relationship, which was different from hers and Viktor’s puppy love, or even how Ron had treated her at school.

They weren’t perfect, they occasionally argued, but Oliver wasn’t mean or snide. He didn’t hold grudges, and he certainly didn’t mind that she was smart, nor did he make her feel bad for liking any of the things she liked. He encouraged her friendships, and her burgeoning ministry career.

She knew they could always talk through their feelings, and that they had a safe space between them. In a way, their relationship was very boring compared to other people’s relationships. There was no drama—no lying, no secrets, no cheating, or other hurtful behavior. Just trust, mutual respect, love and communication.

And that was pretty great.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "it's only after you've lost everything that you're free to do anything. nothing is static. everything is evolving. everything is falling apart." chuck palahniuk. fight club.

One November Sunday morning after breakfast Hermione and Oliver sat in the upstairs parlor together. Harry had already left to see Andromeda and Teddy, taking a tiny toy broom with him that they’d found in a toy shop in Diagon Alley. Harry couldn’t resist, feeling it was his duty as godfather to buy him a broom. (At Sunday dinner he would later report that Kingsley Shacklebolt had come for lunch, and they all gossiped and guessed whether or not Kingsley and Andromeda would start seeing each other, or had started seeing each other!)

Hermione lay on one end of the couch, reading Vogue, marking pages of things she thought would be appropriate for the office, and Oliver sat on the other end, studying this season’s play book. They had gone to see Fight Club the night before, and Hermione wanted to go out later and buy the novel. She wasn’t sure what she thought about the movie yet, or the message.

She had liked the line, “It’s only after you’ve lost everything that you’re free to do anything.”

Didn’t she know it.

She wanted to read the book, and maybe buy a red leather jacket for Oliver. With pointy oversized lapels. Or a tank top. Or a too short t-shirt. Oliver had laughed, delighted as she panted over Brad Pitt’s naked torso—she had wanted to tell every single girl in the theatre that her boyfriend had all of those muscles!

Hermione was just about to doze off when Oliver looked up from his book, and asked her a life-altering question.

“Do you ever think about seeing other people?” Oliver asked.

She was startled by the suddenness of the question, and a tiny bit scared.

“Do you ever think about it?” her voice verging on shrill, as she turned the question back to him.

“Absolutely not,” he shook his head, and shifted his body to face her, and held his hands out, as if to protect himself. He’d heard the bird story from Ron, and the thought of it brought a smile to his face, which was the wrong move, as her eyes narrowed in response.

“No. You know I love you. But I have seen other people, and I know from experience that you’re it for me.”

“So, you're saying I should have more experience?”

“Oh no, no,” he said, shaking his head again, feeling like he had the first time he’d faced a boggart. “You know I’m not saying that. I’m just asking if you’ve ever wanted the chance to have some.”

She’d cocked her head, and raised her eyebrows, a sure sign he was in trouble.

“This is coming out all wrong,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Look. It’s just, you’re 20, right? I just turned 23. You’ve told me about muggle universities, and how people are usually done with their education at 22, and not 17, and how your parents didn’t marry until they were 27 and had started their dental practice together. So, I just wanted to know, to make sure you that you didn’t want space…”

He paused to take in her face, which had relaxed a bit, but there were tears sparkling in her eyes.

“…to make sure there’s no one else out there you’d like better?”

She crawled to him from her end of the couch, and gestured for him to lay down. He did, and she put her head on his chest, and they lay there together for a bit, her leg up over his.

“I know you’re only my second real boyfriend, but I can’t think of any way to improve on you and me,” she said, her voice small, and she curled his right hand into hers, and pulled it close to her chest. “Don’t you think we’re lucky? We trust each other, and like each other just as we are. And the sex is pretty great. Besides, it’s not unheard of, Robert Smith met Mary Poole when he was 14.”

He exhaled and closed his eyes, feeling like he’d dodged a curse. “I think we’re very lucky. But Robert Smith didn’t get married till he was 29.”

He was amused by her referencing The Cure’s Robert Smith’s romance, and was just starting to relax when Hermione started to cry.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You want to break up with me,” she wailed. “You want to wait till we’re 29.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

“Not me,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’d ask you to marry me today if I thought you’d say yes.”

“You would?” she hiccupped.

“Aye,” he said, conjuring his handkerchief and handing it to her.

“So ask,” she said, wiping her eyes, and blowing her nose with his handkerchief.

“Really?”

“Yes?”

He sat her up, and kneeled before her, and she started crying again, and he held her close and whispered into her ear, “I had planned to propose to you in the pantry.”

She shook with sobs that turned into laughter.

He squeezed her, and then wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. He held her face, and looked into her eyes.

“Hermione Jean Granger, will you marry me?”

She smiled, and said yes. He hugged her, and said he loved her in the soft Scottish Gaelic words he’d heard his father say to his mother all his life.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and get you a ring.”

They got ready while kissing. It took an awfully long time, being a very inefficient way to get dressed to go out, as buttoning sometimes became unbuttoning.

They went to a Muggle jewelry shop first, as Hermione had no idea where to begin, and then walked to Diagon Alley, discussing rings and weddings. The only wedding she’d ever been to was Bill and Fleur’s wedding, which she told him about. She’d seen her parent’s wedding pictures, with her mother’s big hat, and high-necked dress with gaudy lace bishop sleeves that had been popular in the 1970s.

She wondered if Oliver would let her wear her red Vivienne Westwood rocking horse platform shoes, and a dress like Shalom Harlow had worn in McQueen’s Savage Beauty collection. She snorted to herself in absolute delight to think she would marry this gorgeous, loving, trusting, kind and generous man.

“Everything is so expensive,” she said dazedly. They were walking toward the Leaky Cauldron to go to Diagon Alley. Oliver had told her about charmed rings, and she wanted to see them.

She knew jewelry could be expensive, having seen the prices in W and Vogue for a year now; some things marked with a mysterious “Price Upon Request,” which just meant that the price was too outrageous and shameful to print. But it had never occurred to her that someone would spend any kind of money on a ring for her.

“Don’t worry about that part. There’s plenty of gold in the vault. In fact…let’s go to Gringotts.”

“Gringotts?”

“Yes. Do you think they’ll let you in?” he asked, squeezing her while laughing.

One night she couldn’t sleep, and told him the story of the vault, and the dragon (she left out some details about the cup; having been ordered by the Ministry to never speak of Horcruxes).

“Charlie said he knew the team of dragon keepers that had been sent to find the Ukrainian Ironbelly,” she said, safe and warm in Oliver’s arm. “She had been in very bad shape when they found her, and they knew she might never regain her eyesight. They were worried that because of the abuse she had suffered, she wouldn’t trust wizards enough to get her onto the reserve. But they managed, and the following winter, they found her sitting on a clutch of two flint-colored eggs! Those eggs hatched into tiny silvery dragons that blew fire in their first minute, and were as big as the Knight Bus when Charlie told me about them.”

She wondered how big the dragons were now.

Every Gringotts goblin’s eyes narrowed when Hermione entered with Oliver. Oliver asked that she be allowed to accompany him to his vault, and the goblins sent a security wizard along with the regular cart attendent. The security wizard winked at her and she smirked back at him.

She couldn’t say she blamed them, though, with a glance at the ceiling. The cart goblin glared at her, and followed her eyes up. They had not been able to replace their dragon, as it had been grandfathered into the International Statute Against the Cruel Misuse of Magical Creatures that had been passed years ago after great effort and lobbying by Newt and Tina Scamander.

They went to the Wood Family Vault, which was as big as the Lestranges’ vault had been, but there were no strange skins or skulls. Hermione stayed outside, and looked away from the glinting gold and wooden caskets, and other objects sparkling alluringly, as Oliver poked around in various cubbies and corners.

“I know they’re in here somewhere…” he said. “Here they are!”

He pulled out three little boxes, and a bag of loose stones. The first box contained a very dainty ring made of silver, with a tiny amethyst at its center, and thistles forming the shoulder and prongs; the second was a large diamond flanked by two smaller diamonds in yellow gold; the third was a large ruby surrounded by tiny diamonds in platinum. The bag contained several diamonds of various sizes and color, a large emerald, a sapphire, an opal, and a few other stones Hermione didn’t recognize.

“We can have any of the rings resized, or made into something else. And please don’t feel pressured to keep anything as it is, or use any of the stones. My father had my mother’s ring made, saying no wife of his would wear hand-me-downs. I’ll buy you a stone the size of a pigeon’s egg if you want it,” Oliver said, and grinned at her.

He slid the little amethyst ring on her finger, which was too small, and wouldn’t slide past her second knuckle. It had belonged to a Muggle relative from long ago, but was given with just as much love as Oliver offered now. He kissed her fingers, and then remembered the goblin, and security wizard, who coughed politely.

Oliver whistled while he took the other rings from their boxes and put them into the little bag, which he placed in his coat pocket. He took a sack of galleons, and they left the vault and took the cart back to the lobby.

She waved to the security wizard on their way out. He tipped his cap at her, and smiled.

“Congratulations,” he called. “Best of luck.”

She wore the little amethyst ring (which had been resized) to Sunday dinner at the Weasleys, a placeholder for the one being made for her. It would be ready just before Christmas.

She told Molly as Bill and Fleur arrived, holding a sleeping Victoire.

Everyone was happy for them, even Ron. If he was sad, or regretted his decision not to date Hermione, he didn’t let it show. He wished the couple well, and cheered just as loudly as anyone after his father’s congratulatory toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shalom Harlow](https://youtu.be/P13oZsD-t4s) in the show's finale. This was unrehearsed.


	26. Chapter 26

Hermione emailed her parents straight away with her news, attaching some photos she’d asked Harry to take with her digital camera (Digital anything was tricky to configure—the parts were all so small, and the magic had to be elegant and extremely precise. But she and Arthur managed.)

Christmas came and went. Harry had another holiday party, which was bigger than the year before, as they all had coworkers, and new work friends to invite.

Ginny moved in after the New Year. She had originally thought to move in after the quidditch season was over, but she was almost always over. It worked out.

Hermione liked Ginny, and they got along well. The house felt more like a college dorm, with all their friends coming over after work, and in the evenings.

In the New Year, Oliver and Hermione threw an engagement party for their friends at the Leaky Cauldron. She flouted the International Statute of Secrecy and invited Sam and Beth. To them, when they thought about the Leaky Cauldron later, it was just another pub that they couldn’t remember, or quite place.

She knew there were ways to make it visible to muggles, as her parents had accompanied to her to Diagon Alley. It only took her a couple trips to the Ministry’s library, and a few well-placed questions to her co-workers who sent out the letters to muggle students.

Hermione felt entitled to a little bit of rule-breaking. What was the point of saving the wizarding world, otherwise?

For Valentine’s Day, Hermione gathered everyone in the cafeteria with promises of cake. There was a group of wizards performing love songs. As Harry bit into a cupcake, the group reprised “His eyes are as green as fresh pickled toad.”

Ginny had floo’ed in from the Harpies practice facility early and bribed the group to perform. Hermione took photos to replace the ones they lost.

Spring came, and Hermione went back to the park.

She also did an interview in Witch Weekly. They had a new editor, and several new writers. They still awarded “Most Charming Smile” every spring, but this year, they were using it as a chance to talk about the important work that being done in the British Wizarding Community. She was this year’s recipient—the first woman to receive the honor.

Hermione knew things had changed when she received her complimentary copy of the magazine and her relationship with Oliver was a sidebar, and not the main focus. The article itself was respectful, and informative. Hermione smiled her most charming smile, and copied it to send to her parents.

For Victoire’s birthday, they all had dinner and cake at the Weasleys, the Delacours coming to see their first granddaughter. She had her grandpére wrapped around her tiny finger.

Victoire did not want to sit at the head of the table alone, but instead shook her head. She wanted to between her mother and Nana Weasley.

“Non, non, non!” Victoire said, shaking her head and getting heavier and heavier, until Fleur’s knees were buckling beneath her.

“’Urry, Bill!” Fleur huffed. “She is turning as ‘eavy as stone!”

This was Victoire’s trick to get what she wanted. Hermione ran over, saying “Victoire! Le vent fort!” and puffed her cheeks and blew, and Victoire rose like a balloon, with Fleur holding her hand.

“Merci,” Fleur said to Hermione, sticking her tongue out and sighing. “She knows how to get what she wants, this one.”

Bill laughed as he brought out the chair, and charmed his stubborn daughter into it.

They set out a little cake in front of her, and Bill lit the candle. They sang to her, and Bill blew out her candle. She smashed her hand into the pink icing, and wiped her hand on her father’s shirt. Fleur laughed, as she took pictures.

Bill shrugged, and fed his daughter a little piece of cake. Victoire grinned with her 4 little teeth showing, and grabbed at her cake.

They sung her the wizarding birthday song, and Hermione grinned up at Oliver, in love with him, her goddaughter, and life in general.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Chapters today, as a treat.

Hermione and Oliver married a few weeks later in June. They had talked about prolonging their engagement, but Hermione didn’t see the point. She wanted a party, and nice weather, and to look really good in their photos.

Oliver had laughed at that reason.

But she reasoned that they’d have just the same amount of time together married or not.

“I just want to be with you all the time,” she said. “29 or 20, what’s the difference?”

“Plus, this way we’ll be so young and good-looking in the photos,” Oliver teased her.

The wedding took place at Oliver’s parents in Scotland. They had talked about a small wedding, just their parents, Harry and the Weasleys. But in the end, they decided to do it big.

“Once you invited all the Weasleys, you might as well invite everyone else,” Oliver had reasoned with a laugh.

The night before the wedding, they had their heart-to-hearts with their parents in private. Oliver’s father asked if he was feeling nervous.

“Not at all,” Oliver told him.

And his father nodded. “It’s a big step. But I’ve never been afraid of anything with your mother by my side. All I can wish is that you feel the same.”

He put his hand on Oliver’s shoulder, and they smiled at each other.

Hermione was equally serene. She was more than ready to marry Oliver, who apart from being absolutely in love with her, considered her an equal partner and friend, and always would.

Oliver invited all his teammates, and their partners, and the Wood family in Scotland was rather large. He had a lot of cousins, and a huge connection on his mother’s side. He was thrilled he’d be able to share this day with all of them.

They kept the decorations simple, preferring to let the beautiful scenery do most of the work. It was a gorgeous day, and the weather was beautiful.

They had to make some compromises, as Hermione had nothing but Muggle relatives, so they couldn’t have the charmed chairs and dance floor that Fleur had. Hermione didn’t want anyone obliviated later. But they did charm all the tables to stay straight. No one’s heels or chair legs sank into the grass, and if anyone looked closely they would wonder where the power chords were, but no one did.

They chose not to have a wedding party, but Hermione’s father did walk her down the aisle while a piper played “She Moved Through the Fair.”

Oliver waited for her in a kilt of his family’s tartan, and thought his heart would burst from love and pride. He grinned as she made her way down the aisle.

As he was a good six inches taller than she was, Oliver didn’t mind Hermione wearing her Vivienne Westwood rocking horse shoes, into which she had tucked a penny for good luck. They were her something old, having found a lightly used pair at Armstrong’s in Edinburgh one lucky weekend. Her mother had lent her a pair of earrings, and her wedding clothes were hemmed with baby blue ribbon. For her something new, she wore a coat whose design she shamelessly stole from the Alexander McQueen Spring Summer 2000 line.

The moment she saw the photo, she took it to Madam Malkin.

“Oh, please, please, please help,” she’d entreated. “I’m getting married in June, and I must wear this coat.”

Madam Malkin obliged, and had the coat made within the week of a lovely silk wool.

When Hermione came to try it on, Madam Malkin commented on its lovely cut, and how well it looked on.

“Whoever designed this knows exactly how bodies move,” she’d said admiringly.

It fit perfectly. Hermione thanked her, and paid for the coat, along with some needles and several spools of golden thread that she had ordered.

Hermione took it home, and worked on her coat for nearly two months every night after work, charming several needles into helping her create the intricate embroidery, which she had changed to add thistles, and a few more stars, which were considered good luck in the wizarding tradition.

She had, for a few mad minutes, considered wearing the coat over her bare skin, with a pair of pants, like the model who had worn its black twin to open the McQueen fashion show.

But instead, she opted for white trousers like the model in the photo of the white coat. And she added a silk chemise, so as not to shock either of their mothers, or the Daily Prophet photographer. She would change into a tea-length dress for the reception. 

Oliver had already seen her coat (but not her dress, or the rest of her wedding outfit), as he’d seen her working on it. He had walked in once the night before the wedding while she was trying it on, and he had held his breath as he carefully took it off her and charmed it onto a hanger, while kissing her neck and shoulders. They weren’t worried about whether or not seeing each other in their wedding clothes was bad luck; they knew they had made their own.

The ceremony was simple and short, written by the couple themselves. Oliver’s mother officiated the handfasting ceremony, in a nod to their wizarding heritage, but Hermione’s muggle family thought was a Celtic tradition.

Their first dance was “Sweetest Decline,” a song that had been on the CD Hermione had burned for Oliver, and was sung by Beth Orton herself.

Harry had hired her to perform at the wedding as his gift to the girl he would always love like a sister. Beth won’t remember, though, as she had to be obliviated after accidentally seeing Ron and George use magic to set up their fireworks display (though they had assured Hermione they’d done it hours before, and without magic…).

The first few lines of the song would always make Oliver think of his bride the rest of his life: “She weaves secrets in her hair, the whispers are not hers to share, she’s deep as well.”

They also had a DJ and danced into the night, and they hired wizards to pose as waitstaff to pass around the lovely food the house elves had made inside. They all loved their Ollie, and this was their gift.

On Monday after the wedding, they took a portkey to Prince Edward Island, as Hermione had always wanted to visit, having read every LM Montgomery book ever written.

After a week and a half, they returned to Grimmauld Place, and lived there awhile with Harry and Ginny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the [shoes](https://www.viviennewestwood.com/en/women/shoes/rocking-horse-ballerina-red-9004W420006.html).  
> And this is the [coat](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2000-ready-to-wear/alexander-mcqueen/slideshow/collection#1). The black coat is the first photo, and the white coat and trousers is Look 23.  
> And [this](http://fashionmuseum.fitnyc.edu/media/view/Objects/117481/41473?t%3Astate%3Aflow=03c0f84b-5fde-4c93-98b4-cd2fedb1d6da) is a vintage Christian Dior dress that I imagine she wears later.  
> And this is [Beth Orton](https://youtu.be/vgOAck4CrfQ). Check out the playlists if you haven't. :)


	28. Chapter 28

Hermione and Oliver started looking for place in London of their own, though it wasn’t an easy task, as London wizarding properties generally passed from generation to generation, with very little sold. They had discussed purchasing a Muggle property, but Hermione wasn’t thrilled about living in the suburbs. She wrinkled her nose, forever equating it with the boring cracker box of a house Petunia Dursley had been so proud of. But she did wonder if it might be safer for the children.

Every time she said “children” Oliver would grin soppily at her.

It was well into September when Hermione was chatting with one of her friends who worked with wizarding property title disputes looking for any leads when she discovered that 13 Grimmauld Place had been offered for sale. The office also kept tabs on muggle property that neighbored wizarding property, as the Ministry encouraged wizards to cluster together for both comradery and safety’s sake.

She sent a Patronus to Oliver, who flooed to the Ministry almost immediately.

“Do you want to go look at it? Do we need to find a muggle estate agent?” he asked, as she met him by the fireplace nearest her office.

“I’m not sure. Let’s go talk to my friend Frances,” she said, pulling him by the hand, and practically running down the hall.

They made an appointment for that afternoon, and Hermione took the rest of the day off. She and Oliver sat in the Ministry cafeteria drinking a tea and discussing their future. Hermione crumbled a stale pumpkin pasty while they talked.

“Grimmauld Place is convenient for work, to St. Mungo’s, and if we had the house connected to the Floo Network, we could floo anywhere else,” she said. “If we lived near wizards, I would feel better about the safety of our children.”  
Oliver grinned widely.

“I suppose if we were to get the house, we could ask Harry about extending the roof garden, so the children would have a nice-sized yard. Maybe we could even have a dog?” Hermione mused, twisting her hands together.

“Aye, whatever makes you happy,” he said, squeezing his wife’s hand, already imagining a dog for Christmas—a Boston Terrier puppy in a red sweater and a bow.

They had talked about having children before they got married. He knew Hermione wanted to wait, as it was so early in their careers, but he couldn’t wait until they had a family of their own.

Hermione also didn’t want to use all of Oliver’s money to buy the house. It was important to her that she contribute to the purchase. She was ready to clear out her little vault so they could go half on the down payment, and they could finance the rest. Her parents’ wedding gift had been to give her the money they had set aside for her university expenses. They realized she wasn’t going back to the muggle world, and knew that she was mature enough to know what to do it.

“Ministry employees have guaranteed rates on home loans, so we could take advantage of that if we wanted,” Hermione continued.

“This is a big deal. Are we ready for this?” she asked Oliver anxiously.

“I know that we can do anything together,” he said simply.

The house had been owned by the same family since the 1940s, having survived the Blitz (perhaps due to the Black Family wards). It hadn’t been remodeled since, which was in their favor, the estate agent assured them. The layout was slightly different than Number 12. They decided to put in an offer, and it was accepted the next day, with the owner saying they could move in immediately if they liked (the Ministry had helped things along).

Harry was enthusiastic about their plans to move next door, and liked the idea of combining their rooftops. He started asking Walberga about the enchantments they had used to keep the house safe, wondering about extending some of them to include the Wood’s new home.

The next incredible piece of news came from Oliver’s quidditch coach. The Saturday after they had moved in, he flooed into their new kitchen and was met by their house elf, Deeny.

* * *

Hermione hadn’t wanted a house elf, but wizarding houses of certain size and means were required to take in an elf or elves. Through her talks with Oliver and Draco, Hermione came to understand that House Elf magic was tied to the magic of the wizards they served.

“Dobby was an example of how the symbiotic relationship between elves and wizards can, and sometimes is, corrupted by wizards who craved power and control,” Draco said knowingly.

Oliver pointed out how much Kreacher had changed since Harry had moved back in to Grimmauld Place. Hermione couldn’t argue with them, and agreed to take in an elf if they could offer freedom, or at least payment.

When their elf, Deeny appeared, Hermione immediately asked if she would rather be freed. Deeny was frightened, wondering what sort of family she had been assigned to, and staunchly refused. Hermione, who couldn’t help it, asked her if she would like time to reconsider.

Oliver rolled his eyes, and took his wife by the shoulders and gently sat her down in a chair at the kitchen table.

“There, there, love,” he said to his wife, kissing her cheek.

He turned to Deeny and said, “My beloved muggleborn wife doesn’t know much about House Elves, I apologize if she frightened you.”

Deeny accepted his apology, and Oliver continued, introducing himself to her, and cordially shaking her little hand.

“But, I want to make my bonnie bride happy, so I wonder if you’ll agree to 10 galleons a week, weekends off, sick leave, and a month’s worth of vacation,” he said, opening negotiations.

Deeny bargained him down, while Hermione watched dismayed, and it was ultimately agreed that Deeny should not be paid, but agreed to her own little room off the kitchen and Saturdays off to visit with her Hogwarts family. She would wear a pillowcase, and had no use for hats, but would wear socks when the weather was colder, with the express understanding that this was for her comfort only and did not count as clothes.

* * *

Deeny went to get Master Oliver, who came down covered in paint as he’d just gotten a little handsy with his wife, who’d been holding a few pots of samples to paint swatches for the upstairs rooms.

“Hello, Hector!” Oliver said, greeting his coach with a handshake.

“Oliver,” he said, without smiling.

“You look very serious.”

“Well, I have some bad news. For me, anyway. I’m sure you’ll see it differently.”

“Hermione!” Oliver called to his wife, as he offered Hector a seat on their new couch. Oliver sat opposite on a couple of moving boxes, and Hermione came down with corresponding paint stains.

“I’m afraid you’ve been traded, Oliver,” Hector said.

“What? How? But my contract… To who?!”

“Chudley Cannons.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, putting his hands to his head, and leaned back, falling into the half-empty box he’d been perched on.

Hermione transfigured the boxes into a chair for him to sink into.

“How can this be?” she asked. “I thought the preseason trading had concluded.”

“We thought it had. But somehow this was pushed through at the very last minute—and I mean very last. I got word just this morning.”

“The Cannons…” Oliver looked like a deflated balloon, and Hermione patted his back gently.

The Chudley Cannons, who Hermione knew from Ron’s quidditch posters and old bedspread, had been the last in the league for years now.

“Oh dear…” Hermione said softly, as Deeny appeared with tea, scones, jam, and clotted cream, and little finger sandwiches. Hermione smiled kindly and Deeny, and thanked her, while Deeny gave her an unsure look in return, and disappeared back to the kitchen.

What none of them knew was that Sybil Trelawney herself was at the bottom of the trade.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, Sybil Trelawney had sat with Aberforth, who’d long ago taken a fancy to her overlarge eyes, and asked her if she wouldn’t live with him in his rooms over the bar. He called her his witchy woman, and promised she’d never lack for anything the rest of her life.

Sybil, who had been so lonely in the castle, consulted her tarot cards right then and there. She read the cards favorably, though the spread had contained a few questionable cards. But she thrived with Aberforth at the Hogshead. He loved hearing her grim predictions, and let her read the dregs of whatever glass she liked, and if the customers didn’t like it, they knew better than to complain.

The Chudley Cannons owner liked to floo into the Hogshead for a pint—no one there would tease him over his team’s pitiful prospects. Sybil had taken one look in the team owner’s glass and interpreted a bridegroom would bring him luck. He’d protested he didn’t know any bridegrooms.

“Find one,” she said over her shoulder, and tinkled away, taking his glass to Aberforth be washed. Hygiene had improved at the Hogs Head, as dirty dishes made it harder for Sybill to read them.

The Cannons owner looked dejectedly around, and his eyes fell on an old Daily Prophet that had reported on Oliver and Hermione’s wedding. They were waving up at him from the photo that accompanied a story on their wedding. At that moment, he decided this must be it! He pulled every favor to get Oliver, and offered Puddlemere United a rather large sum, since he didn’t have any players to trade, and knowing he’d be laughed at if he tried.

Oliver’s new contract came a few hours later. He’d been made starting keeper and captain of the Chudley Cannons, and was offered a very healthy salary with additional bonuses for improved league standing.

Harry recognized the maniacal glint in Oliver’s eye, and felt hopeful for the Cannons prospects that season. Oliver had learned a lot from his Puddlemere United coaches, and put his new knowledge to good use with the Cannons. The Cannons surprised everyone, including themselves, when they went from 13th to 7th that season.


	29. Chapter 29

Hermione continued her good work with the Ministry, and did much and more during her 30-hour work weeks. She was efficient, and happy and liked most of her coworkers. And though she was sorely tempted, she left her work in the office, and only allowed herself to read Ministry case studies when Oliver had to travel for games. Though more often than not, she traveled with him.

The next season, the Chudley Cannons finished 3rd. Hermione was so proud, and Oliver was having a much better time than anyone, except perhaps Sybil Trelawney, could have ever predicted.

Hermione and Oliver made time for their friends, and movies, and museums, and they traveled, and went to concerts and even the ballet. Oliver started subscribing to men’s fashion magazines, as he didn’t want his wife to be the only well-dressed one.   
Hermione particularly enjoyed him in a well-cut suit, and loved him in a sweater his mother knitted.

Bill and Fleur were expecting again, and Hermione spoke to Fleur often, as she and Oliver had earnestly discussed having their first child.

The year the Chudley Cannons won the league was also the year their first child was born. Though Hermione was not due for another two weeks, and though she was told first babies were more often late than early, her water had broken the night before the Cannons final match of the season. If the Cannons won this match by more than 200 points, they would win the league cup.

As her contractions hadn’t started yet, she called the midwife who suddenly found herself with a ticket to the Cannons’ match that Sunday at noon.

Hermione’s contractions began as the match did, she cursed the team medi-wizard’s mouth shut when he suggested they tell Oliver.

“You absolutely will not,” she said. “This could take hours.”

She undid her curse, and calmly asked him to time her contractions instead. Perhaps because of the high emotions in the stadium, her labor wasn’t very long, but thankfully neither was the match. They won 360 to 70 when their seeker caught the snitch after 290 minutes of play.

“He’ll be the baby’s godfather,” she thought to herself over the cheering coming from the crowd, and the celebratory cannonfire of the actual Chudley cannons, which hadn’t been fired since 1892.

Because her contractions were so close together, the midwife and medi-wizard decided not to floo her to St. Mungo’s, but instead made her comfortable in the team’s medical bay.

When Oliver came to the Top Box for the cup presentation, an eagle-eyed reporter who saw Hermione escorted from the box asked how he felt to be able to hold the cup and his child in the same day.

Oliver took the box in with one glance, and then shoved the cup into their Seeker’s hands, and went running down the hall without a word. The medi-wizard apparated to him, grabbed him by his robes, and then apparated him into the medical bay.

Hermione lit up to see him, and said, “Oh, Oliver, I’m so proud of you.”

“What a witch you are,” he said, rushing over and grabbing her hand. “When did this happen? Why didn’t you say?”

“Well, my water broke yesterday,” she said, and he groaned.

“You had…”

“Nothing’s more important to me than you,” he interrupted, grimacing, as she was squeezing his hand very hard. “Not even quidditch. Do you hear?”

The midwife informed them that Hermione’s contractions were very close together now, and that their baby would be making its debut very soon.

The midwife had Hermione start pushing, and with just a few pushes, and not too much fuss, the midwife guided their son into the world. Oliver thought his heart would explode from joy as the baby cried. The medi-wizard caught Oliver into a chair, as Hermione leaned back, utterly exhausted.

“Congratulations,” the midwife said, while cleaning the baby and checking its vitals. “It’s a boy.”

“A boy!” Oliver whispered hoarsely, as the midwife beckoned him to cut the umbilical cord.

She then swaddled their son in a clean Chudley Cannons t-shirt, and placed him into Hermione’s arms.

Oliver put his forehead to hers and kissed her cheek, hardly believing his luck.

“Hello. Hello little Liam,” she cooed. Tears fell from Oliver’s eyes as he took in his little family.

Hermione’s heart was so full, she could hardly believe it was still beating. How lucky she was—a husband who loved her, a son, friends, a life with purpose. She squeezed Oliver’s hand.

After an hour or two, they took her to St. Mungo’s where the Weasleys and Woods were waiting. Arthur had already telephoned Hermione’s parents, who were rearranging their flight.

Everyone came to congratulate them, and meet Liam. The team sent over a baby basinet with a ton of supplies, an assortment of Chudley Cannon onsies and tiny blazing orange jumpers, socks and sweat pants. They also sent a toy broom that looked just like Oliver’s Cleansweep Pro 1370.

Harry and Ginny came and brought a baby quilt, Molly had made a tiny Weasley sweater, and Sam and Beth came with a collection of punk onsies that Sam had screen-printed himself. Liam’s first family photos were taken while he was wearing the Nirvana onsie with the yellow smiley face with exed-out eyes.

Thanks to the ministry’s generous parental leave, and Hermione took a year off after each of her children were born. She returned to her 30-hour work week, and had plenty of time to read them stories, and watch them develop and grow.

She wanted to read to her children, and take them to the park to roller skate, or ride their bikes, and to help them with their schoolwork as they grew older. Oliver was an excellent father, taking on his fair share of late-night bottles, diaper changes and the like.  
Their daughter Sophie’s arrival was a little more relaxed. Perhaps not wanting to arrive amid cannonfire, she chose the Sunday after their second to last match of the season. Oliver was elated, and knew that his daughter would be trouble, as he was fairly sure he would never say no to her.

Sophie made her debut at the final match, lifting a dainty hand to greet the crowd from her Cannons orange blankets. Liam, nearly three, cheered for the Cannons loudly from the family box, in a set of robes just like his father’s. Hermione (who had no problem telling her son no) had made him leave his little broom at home after he declared he was going to fly up to help his Da by beating away the mean bludgers.

Liam would’ve, too.

Oliver played an excellent game, and didn’t let a single quaffle in. The Cannons won their third cup.

Liam was boisterous, sometimes verging into bossy, know-it-all territory, but his mother, who remembered how lonely she’d been starting Hogwarts, didn’t want the same fate for her children. She encouraged their intellects, while also telling them that they could learn plenty by listening and being kind, and taking turns. Liam grew into a confident kid, who knew a lot of things, but was happy to let others share the spotlight. Oliver was hands-on father, changing diapers, and burping babies after late-night feedings. They had a nannyshare with Ginny and Harry, and Oliver took care of his kids fulltime during the offseason. He often took them to the zoo, or for story hour at the library. They went to museums in the afternoon with their mother, and to the Burrow, where they could fly in the sheltered paddock in the back with the Potters and all the Weasley grandkids.

Liam and James Potter were best friends. Hermione and Harry had to install sneakoscopes in their rooms after they spent a frantic hour one afternoon searching for them.

It was soon discovered that Kreacher had made a secret passage between the boys’ rooms so they could play together whenever they felt like it.

Harry scolded Kreacher, saying “You know I’ve asked you not to follow the children’s orders, Kreacher.”

“Kreacher is very old, and must have forgotten, Master Harry.”

And they both knew very well that Kreacher hadn’t.

Liam would play quidditch just like his father, though he was a Beater, and would be named captain of the Gryffindor team, and several years later, to his father’s great delight, of the Chudley Cannons.

Sophie, who had hair just like Hermione’s, and all of her father’s steady, quiet confidence and kindness, would become fast friends with Albus. They liked reading, or playing quieter games. They spent a lot of time on the rooftop garden together. Though both children enjoyed roller skating with Hermione, who often took them to the park.

When Sophie was five, she solemnly declared that she would marry Scorpius when she turned 17. Draco would tease Hermione about this often, but neither were surprised when they did marry (though not at 17). They had been inseparable as children, and later, amid all the raging hormones and fickle romances of their school friends, they only ever had eyes for each other.

Sophie loved watching muggle movies with her Granger grandparents and often watched westerns with Grandpa Granger. He encouraged her to be anything she wanted, anything at all, and promised her his record collection whenever she was ready for it. Sophie went to university, and got an advanced degree in writing, and dedicated her first novel to him. She sent her Grandpa Granger an advanced author’s copy of all her works. She became a best-selling novelist, writing wizarding thrillers and mysteries.  
She had surprising success in the muggle world as well, after skirting the International Statute of Secrecy by sending in one of her manuscripts to a small science fiction press. As it was published as fiction, she couldn’t be prosecuted. She had been careful to change some things, and made up others. So it wasn’t like she had given anything away.

She won a Hugo Award and the reviews praised her imagination and looked forward to hearing more of this incredible and detailed world she’d created. She only published one more book.

She still gets occasional letters from the press, asking if she has any manuscripts she would like to submit. 

One night, before Sophie was born or thought of, Hermione left Liam in Oliver’s very capable hands and snuck away to London Fashion Week. Not being able to stand it any longer, she borrowed Harry’s invisibility cloak and apparated into the Alexander McQueen Autumn/Winter 2006 show, The Widows of Culloden. The music was loud and no one heard her appear, though her wand was out and ready should she need to confund anyone.

Hermione had been beyond thrilled to stand quietly off to the side and watch those tweeds and feathers and laces make their way down the runway. The show itself was some of the most joyful and intense minutes of her life. She came home elated. Oliver saw that she talked about the show like he talked about quidditch, and listened intently as she described the clothes, and reveled in her excitement.

She would never go again, but would love Alexander McQueen the rest of her life. His clothes made her see that fashion was more than frivolous; his clothes were art.

When she was 30, Lee Alexander McQueen died, and she cried for someone she’d never met and didn’t know, and took vacation leave to mope around the house for the rest of the week. Oliver brought her flowers, and ordered her favorite takeout for dinner, and consoled her as though she’d lost a friend, knowing how much this muggle man had shaped her imagination and personality with his beautiful clothes. (They knew he was a muggle after all; Hermione had checked against wizarding birth records, and even the Squib registry one slow afternoon in the office).

When their second son, and third child, was born later that year in November (the day the British and Irish Quidditch League began play), they named him Alexander.

They went to America the next summer, and Oliver took Liam and Sophie to the Central Park Zoo, while Hermione pushed Alexander very slowly around the Savage Beauty exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Alexander idolized Liam and James, and would often get into trouble with them. He thought Albus a little moony, but loved Sophie with all his heart. Even though he was younger, he was always tall for his age, and would always shield her from bullies or rough play or language, even if it was his own older brother who was doing the roughhousing.

He liked roller skating with his mother, and learned to ride a bike, and a skateboard. He was afraid of nothing, and was a natural on a broom. Oliver was sure he had another quidditch player on his hands. Alexander would also play beater, though not with his brother at Hogwarts due to their age difference.

Alexander would make Captain of the Griffindor team soon after Liam had graduated, and was recruited to Puddlemere United, who had recruited him with the first pick of that year’s draft. His father was bursting with pride.

The Wood brothers would play opposite each other for five seasons, before the Alexander was traded to the Cannons. Once together, the Wood brothers played like machines, almost as if they were reading each other’s minds…

Together, they would win the league, and qualify to play for England.

The year they won the Quidditch World Cup together, their parents watched proudly from the top box. Their sister and Scorpius cheering them from the stands, having chosen to attend the match with the rest of their school friends, rather than sit with their parents in the Top Box.

Hermione had had to hand off the presentation of the Cup to her Undersecretary, as she couldn’t stop sobbing from joy. Oliver held her as she cried into his shoulder, and her boys enveloped her in a bear hug as soon they entered the Top Box.

All was well, and would be.

Hermione and Oliver had each other, and they knew they made their own luck, and were unafraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander McQueen Fall 2006 Ready to Wear [The Widows of Culloden](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/fall-2006-ready-to-wear/alexander-mcqueen)  
> We don't say Goodbye, [We Say Good Journey](https://youtu.be/JNsHN_ORCy4)  
> <3


End file.
